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Father Ryan's Poems 



POEMS: 



Patriotic, Religious, 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



BY 

(Fattier Ryan.) y 



"All Rests with those who Read. A work or thought 
Is what each makes it to himself, and may 
Be full of great dark meanings, like the sea, 
With shoals of life rushing ; or like the air, 
Benighted with the wing of the wild dove, 
Sweeping miles broad o'er the far southwestern woods 
With mighty glimpses of the central light- - 
Or may be nothing— bodiless, spiritless." 

— Festus. 



BALTIMORE: 

ilSHED !BY JOHN IB- piet, 
No. 174 West Baltimore Street. 

?1880. 



-^■J* 



i 



.P^.««<> 



« 



c» 



•Jt- 



Copyright, 1880, by Abram J. Ryan. 



Press of John B. Fiet. 



THESE 

SIMPLE RHYMES 

ALE LAID AS A GARLAND OF LOVE 

AT THE FEET OF HIS MOTHER BY 

HER CHILI), THE 

AUTHOR. 

I 




PEEFACE. 



These Verses (which some friends call by the higher title 
of Poems — to which appellation the Author objects), were written 
at random— off and on, here, there, anywhere— just when the 
mood came, with little of study and less of art, and always in 
a hurry. 

Hence they arc incomplete in finish, as the Author is; tho' 
he thinks they are true in tone. His feet know more of the 
humble steps that lead up to the Altar and its Mysteries, than 
of the steeps that lead up to Parnassus and the Home of the 
Muses. And souls were always more to him than songs. But 
still somehow— and he could not tell why— he sometimes tried 
to sing. Here arc his simple songs. He never dreamed of taking 
even low T est place in the rank of authors. But friends persisted ; 
and finally a young law T yer friend, who has entire charge of his 
business in the book, forced him to front the world and its 
critics. There arc verses connected w r ith the w T ar published in 
this volume, not for harm sake, nor for hate sake, but simply 
because the Author WTOte them. He would write again in the 
same tone and key, under the same circumstances. No more 
need be said, except that these verses mirror the mind of 

THE AUTHOR. 



(vil) 



PUBLISHERS PBEFACE. 



For years the name of Father Ryan has been a household 
word. It is known wherever the English language is spoken, 
and everywhere it is reverenced as the appellation of a true child 
of song» It is especially dear to the people of the South, among 
whom he who bears it has lived and worked and touched his 
tuneful harp. 

These his poems have moved multitudes. They have thrilled 
the soldier on the eve of battle and quickened the martial 
impulses of a chivalric race ; they have soothed the soul* wounds 
of the suffering; and they have raised the hearts of men in 
adoration and benediction to the great Father of all. 

When the announcement was made towards the close of last 
year that they were to be gathered together into a volume the 
news was heard as glad tidings by the friends of the poet-priest, 
and the book had hardly appeared when the edition was 
exhausted. The ablest critics were generous in their praise of 
it and predicted that it would be for its author a monument 
more enduring than brass. 

This edition has been revised, amended > and enriched by the 
addition of several poems not printed in the first collection. 
Thus improved, it is offered to the public by 

THE PUBLISHER 



(W 



CONTENTS. 



Song of the Mystic, - - - - 1 

Reverie, -- - - - - - - 4 

Lines— 1875, -------8 

A Memory, - - - - - * - ID 

Rhyme, ».-.-..-* 12 

Nocturne, - - - - - - - 17 

The Old Year and the New, - - - - 21 

IJrin's Flag, - - - - - - - 24 

The Sword of Robert Lee, - - - 27 \^ 

Life, ... - - - 29 

A Laugh— and a Moan, ----- 32 

In Memory of My Brother, - - - - - 35 

"Out of the Depths,"' - - * - - 36 

A Thought, - - - - - --38 

March of the Deathless Dead, 39 

Reunited, -_ - » - - - 41 

A Memory, .**••-- 44 
At Last, * * * - - --51 

A Land without Ruins, 53 

Memories, - - - - - --54 

The Prayer of the South, - - - 56 —* 

Feast of the Assumption, - - - - - 60 

Bursum Corda, - - - - - 64 

A Child's Wisn, - - - - - 66 

<*0 



Xll CONTENTS. 

Presentiment, ------ 68 

Last of May, - - - - - - - 69 

"Gone," ----..-73 

Feast of the Sacred Heart, - - - - 75 

In Memory of Very Rev. J. B. Etienne, - - 77 

Tears, - - - - - - --79 

Lines, - - - - - -81 

The Land we Love, - - - . - - - 82 

,In Memoriam, ------ 83 

Reverie, - - - - - - - 85 

I Often Wonder Why 'tis so, - - - - 88 

A Blessing, - - - - - --90 

July 9th, 1872, ------ 92 

Wake Me a Song, - - - - - 95 

In Memoriam— David J. Ryan, C. S. A , - - - 96 

What? -------- 102 

The Master's Voice, ----- 103 

A "Thought-Flower," ----- 106 

A Death, - - - • - - - 107 

The Rosary of My Tears, - - - - - no 

DEATH, .-.-.-. ill 

What Ails the World, - - - - - 114 

A Thought* ---..„ 117 

IN Rome, * * - - - _ - 120 

after Sickness, *---.. 123 
Old Trees, •* ■* - - - - 125 

After Seeing Pius IX ----- 126 
Sentinel Songs, » - - - - - 127 

Fragments from an Epic Poem, - - - - 140 

Lake Como, -----.. 157 
" Peace! Be Still** 1 * 164 



CONTENTS. Xlll 

Good Friday, -• - - • - 165 

My Beads, ------- 166 

At Night, ------- 168 

Nocturne, ------- 171 

Sunless Days, ------- 174 

A Reverie, ------- 175 

St. Mary's, ------- 176 

De Profundis, ...... 179 

When? - - - 183 

(the Conquered Banner, ----- i85 

A Christmas Chant, ------ 188 

"Far Away," - - - - - • - 216 

Listen, -- - - - -- oig 

Wrecked, ....... 219 

Dreaming, .... . 221 

A TnouGHT, ------. 222 

"Yesterdays," - - • - 223 

"To-Days," - - - - . . 224 

11 To-MoRROWS," - - - - - - . 225 



Inevitable, 

Sorrow and the Flowers, 



228 
231 



Hope, ------.. 237 



Farewells, 



238 



Song of the River, ----.. 239 

Dreamland, - - 241 

Lines, ------.. 242 

A Song, - - - - ... . 2 43 

Parting, -----... 246 

Ct. Stephen, ----... 247 

A Flower's Song, ------ 251 

The Star's Song, ---... 252 



XIV CONTENTS. 

Death of the Flower, ------ 253 

Singing-Bird, .-._-- 255 
Now, - - - - - - --257 

M * * *, - - - - - - - 259 

God in the Night, ------ 263 

Poets, ------- 265 

A Legend, - - - - - _ _ 268 

Thoughts, ------- 270 

Lines, -------- 272 

C. S. A., - - - - - - - 273 

The Seen and the Unseen, - - - - - 275 

Passing Away, -----_ 278 

The Pilgrim, ------- 280 

A Reverie, ------. 291 

■ — — TnEiR Story Runneth Thus, - - - 294 /^* 

NiGnT After the Picnic, - - - - - 327 

Llnes, -------. 332 

Death of the Prixce Imperial, - 334 

Is memoriam, --•■-•■-.•■■« 337 

Mobile Mystic Societies, - 344 

Rest, -......_ 34 6 

Epilogue, ----.„_ 348 



ILLUSTKATIONB. 

Portrait of AuTnoR, ------- Frontispiece. 

Erin's Flag, ----------- 24 

St. Mary's Church, --------- 69 

The Conquered Banner, - - - - <■ - » •• . 185 



SONG OF TUE MYSTIC. 




1 WALK down the Valley of Silence— 
j&k? Down the dim, voiceless valley — alone! 
<& And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
Around me, save God's and my own ; 
And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown ! 



^a^ 



Long ago was I weary of voices 
Whose music my heart could not win ; 

Long ago was I weary of noises 
That fretted my soul with their din ; 

Long ago was I weary of places 
Where I met but the human— and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly; 

I craved what the world never gave; 
And I said : " In the world each Ideal, 

That shines like a star on life's wave, 

Is wrecked on the shores of the Eeal, 

And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 

a) 



BONG OF THE MYSTIC. 

And still did I pine for the Perfect, 
And still found the False with the True ; 

I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue : 

And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 

And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human; 

And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; 
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar 

And I heard a voice call me:~since then 
I walk down the Valley of Silence 

That lies far beyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 

'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine, 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And above me a voice said: "Be mine." 
And there arose from the depths of my spirit 

An echo=" My heart shall be thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the Valley ? 

I weep— and I dream— and I pray. 
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 

That fall on the roses in May; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, 

Ascendeth to God night and day. 



SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 

In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing; 

And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
Till each finds a word for a wing, 

That to hearts, like the Dote of the Deluge, 
A message of Peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows ^ 
That never shall break on the beach ; 

And I hare heard songs in the Silence, 
That never shall float into speech \ 

And I have had dreams In the Valley* 
Too lofty for language to reach* 

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley-^ 
Ah ! me, how my spirit was stirred ! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: 

They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word I 

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? 

It lieth afar between mountains, 
And God and His angels are there: 

And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
And one the bright mountain of Prayer! 




BEVEBIE. 



|NLY a few more years! 
^Slk 9 Weary years! 
*• On]y a few more tears ! 
Bitter tears ! 
And then — and then — like other men, 
I cease to wander, cease to weep, 
Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep ; 
And out of the day and into the night, 
Into the dark and out of the bright 
I go, and Death shall veil my face, 
The feet of the years shall fast efface 
My very name, and every trace 
I leave on earth; for the stern years tread, 
Tread out the names of the gone and dead ! 
And then — ah ! then — like other men, 
I close my eyes and go to sleep, 
Only a few, one hour, shall weep : 
Ah ! me, the grave is dark and deep ! 

(4) 



EEVERIE. 

Alas ! Alas ! 

How soon we pass ! 
And ah ! we go 
So far away; 
When go we must, 

From the light of Life, and the heat of strife, 
To the peace of Death, and the cold, still dust, 
We go — we go— we may not stay, 
We travel the lone, dark, dreary way ; 
Out of the day and into the night, 
Into the darkness, out of the bright. 
And then ! ah ! then, like other men, 
We close our eyes and go to sleep ; 
We hush our hearts and go to sleep ; 
Only a few, one hour, shall weep : 
Ah I mc, the grave is lone and deep ! 

I saw a flower, at morn, so fair; 

I passed at eve, it was not there. 
I saw a sunbeam, golden, bright, 
I saw a cloud the sunbeam's shroud, 

And I saw night 

Digging the grave of day; 

And day took off her golden crown, 

And flung it sorrowfully down. 



REVERIE. 

Ah ! day: the Sun s fair bride! 

At twilight moaned and died. 
And so, alas ! like day we pass : 

At morn we smile, 
At eve we weep, 

At morn we wake, 
In night we sleep. 
We close our eyes and go to sleep : 
Ah ! me, the grave is still and deep ! 

But God is sweet. 

My mother told me so, 
When I knelt at her feet 
Long— so long — ago; 
She clasped my hands in hers. 
Ah ! me, that memory stirs 
My soul's profoundest deep-^- 
No wonder that I weep. 
She clasped my hands and smiled, 
Ah ! then I was a child — 
I knew Hot harm-* 
My mother's arm 
Was flung around me; and I felt 
That when I knelt 
To listen to my mother's prayer,* 
God was with mother there. 



KEVEKIE. 

Yea! "God is sweet V 9 

She told me so ; 

She never told me wrong; 
And through my years of woe 
Her whispers soft, and sad, and low, 

And sweet as Angel's song, 
Have floated like a dream* 

And, ah! to night I seem 
A very child in my old, old place. 
Beneath my mother's blessed face ; 

And through each sweet remembered word, 

This sweetest undertone is heard: 

"My child! my child! our God is sweet, 
In Life — in Death— kneel at His feet — 

Sweet in gladness, sweet in gloom, 

Sweeter still beside the tomb." 
Why should I wail ? Why ought I weep ? 
The grave — it is not dark and deep ; 

Why should I sigh ? Why ought I moan ? 

The grave — it is not still and lone 5 
Our God is sweet, our grave is sweet* 
We lie there sleeping at His feet* 

Where the wicked shall from troubling cease* 

And weary hearts shall rest in peace 1 



LINES— 1875. 



iliO down where the wavelets are kissing the shore, 
Spr And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
■^ The poets have asked them a thousand times o'er, 
But they're kissing the shore as they kissed it b2fore, 
And they're sighing to-day and they 11 sigh evermore. 
Ask them what ails them: they will not reply, 
But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why ! 
Why does your poetry Sound like a sigh ? 
The waves will not answer you; neither shall I. 

Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless deep, 
When the night stars are gleaming on high, 
And hear how the billows are moaning in sleep, 
On the low lying strand by the surge-beaten steep. 
They're moaning forever wherever they sweep. 
Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 
They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell why ! 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh? 
The waves will not answer you ; neither shall I. 

(8) 



LINES— 1875. 9 

Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, 

When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye." 

The dear little breeze — how it wishes to stay 

Where the flowers are in bloom, where the singing birds 

play; 
How its sighs when it flies on its wearisome way. 
Ask it what ails it; it will not reply, 
Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. 
Why dees your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
The breeze will not answer you ; neither shall I. 

Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from their lair, 
When the shout of the storm rends the sky; 
They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' the air 
And they blight with their breath all the lovely and fair, 
And they groan like the ghosts in the " land of despair." 
Ask them what ails them : they never reply ; 
Their voices are mournful, they will not tell why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
The blasts will not answer you; neither shall I. 

Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, 

Or list where the rivers rush by; 

The streamlets which forest trees shadow and hide, 

And the rivers that roll in their ocean ward tide, 

Are moaning forever wherever they glide; 



10 A MEMORY. 

Ask them what ails them : they will not reply. 
On— sad voiced — they flow, but they never tell why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
Earth's streams will not answer you; neither shall I. 

Go list to the voices of air, earth and s:a, 
And the voices that sound in the sky ; 
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in each key, 
And thousands of sighs swell their grand melody. 
Ask them what ails them : they will not reply. 
They sigh — sigh forever — but never tell why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
Their lips will not answer you ; neither will I ! 



A ME MO BY. 






il|N"E bright memory shines like a star 

SSI 

^•J^ 9 In the sky of my spirit forever ; 
■^ And over my pathway it flashes afar 
A radiance that perishes never. 

One bright memory — only one ; 

And I walk by the light of its gleaming ; 
It brightens my days, and when days are done 

It shines in the night o'er my dreaming. 



A MEMORY, 11 

One bright memory, whose golden rays 

Illumine the gloom of my sorrows, 
And I know that its lustre will gladden my gaze 

In the shadows of all my to-morrows, 

One bright memory : when I am sad 

I lift up my eyes to its shining, 
And the clouds pass away, and my spirit grows glad, 

And my heart hushes all its repining, 

One bright memory j others have passed 

Back into the shadows forever; 
But it, far and fair, bright and true to the last, 

Sheds a light that will pass away never. 

Shine on, shine always, thou star of my days ! 

And when Death's starless night gathers o'er me, 
Beam brighter than ever adown on my gaze, 

And light the dark valley before me. 



RHYME. 



■NE idle day— 

St^f A mile or so of sunlit waves off shore- 
•^ In a breezeless bay, 
We listless lay — 
Our boat a " dream of rest" on the still sea— 
And — we were four. 

The wind had died 
That all day long sang songs unto the deep ; 

It was eventide, 

And far and wide 
Sweet silence crept thro' the rifts of sound 

With spells of §leep, 

Our gray sail cast 
The only cloud that flecked the foamless sea; 

And weary at last 

Beside the mast 
One fell to slumber with a dreamy face, 

And—we were three. 

02) 



RHYME, 13 

No ebb ! no flow ! 
No sound ! no stir in the wide-wondrous calmj 

In the sunset's glow . 

The shore shelved low 
And snow-white, from far ridges screened with shade 

Of drooping palm, 

Our hearts were hushed ; 
All light seemed melting into boundless blue j 

But the west was flushed 

Where sunset blushed, 
Thro' clouds of roses, when another slept 

And— we were two. 

How still the air ! 
Not e'en a sea-bird o'er us waveward flew j 

Peace rested there ! 

Light everywhere ! 
Nay ! Light ! some shadows fell on that fair scene, 

And— we are two, 

Some shadows ! Where ? 
No matter where ! all shadows are not seen j 

For clouds of care 

To skies all fair 
Will sudden rise as tears to shining eyes, 

And dim their sheen. 



14 RHYME, 

We spake no word, 
Tho' each I ween did hear the other's soul. 

Not a wavelet stirred, 

And yet we heard 
The loneliest music of the weariest waves 

That ever roll. 

Yea ! Peace, you swayed 
Your sceptre jeweled with the evening light; 

And then you said 
" Here falls no shade, 
Here floats no sound, and all the seas and skies 

Sleep calm and bright," 

Nay ! Peace, not so ! 
The wildest waves may feel thy sceptre's spell 

And fear to flow, 

But too and fro— 
Beyond their reach lone waves on troubled seas 

Will sink and swell. 

No word e'en yet : 
Were our eyes speaking while they watched the sky ? 

And in the sunset 

Infinite regret 
Swept sighing from the skies into our souls : 

I wonder why ? 



RHYME. 15 

A half hour passed — 
'Twas more than half an age; 'tis ever thus. 

Words came at last, 

Fluttering and fast 
As shadows veiling sunsets in the souls 

Of each of us. 

The noiseless night 
Sped flitting like a ghost where waves cf blue 

Lost all their light, 

As lips once bright 
Whence smiles have fled ; we or the wavelets sighed, 

And — we were two. 

The day had gone : 
And on the dim, high altar of the dark, 

Stars, one by one, 

Far, faintly shone ; 
The moonlight trembled, like a mother's smile, 

Upon our bark. 

We softly spoke : 
The waves seemed listening on the lonely sea, 

The winds awoke ; 

Our whispers broke 
The spell of silence ; and two eyes unclosed, 

And — we were three. 



16 RHYME. 

" The breezo blows fair," 
He said : " the waking waves set towards the shore." 

The long brown hair 

Of the other there, 
Who slumbered near the mast with dreamy face, 

Stirred — we were four. 

That starry night, 
A mile or so of shadows from the shore, 

Two faces bright 

With laughter light 
Shone on tw T o souls like stars that shine on shrines ; 

And — we were four. 

Over the reach 
Of dazzling waves our boat like wild bird flew; 

We reached the beach, 

Nor song, nor speech 
Shall ever tell our Sacramental thought 

When — we were two. 



NOCTURNE. 



I SIT to-night by the firelight, 
SSfc' And I look at the glowing flame, 
J> And I see in the bright red flashes 
A Heart, a Fare and a Name. 



How often have I seen pictures 

Framed in the firelight's blaz^, 
Of hearts, of names and of faces, 

And scenes of remembered days ! 

How often have I found poems 

In the crimson of the coals, 
And the swaying flames of the firelight 

Unrolled such golden scrolls. 

And my eyes, they were proud to read them, 

In letters of living flame, 
But to-night, in the fire, I see only 

One Heart, one Face and one Name. 

(17) 



18 NOCTURNE. 

Bat where are the olden pictures? 

And where are the olden dreams ? 
Has a change come over my vision ? 

Or over the fire's bright gleams ? 

Not over my vision, surely ; 

My eyes — they are still the same, 
That used to find in the firelight 

So many a face and name. 

Not over the firelight, either, 

No change in the coals or blaze 
That flicker and flash, as ruddy 

To-night as in other days. 

But there must be a change — I feel it 
To-night not an old picture came ; 

The fire's bright flames only painted 
One Heart, one Face and one Name* 

Three pictures ? No! only one picture; 

The Face belongs to the Name, 
And the Name names the Heart, that is throbbing 

Just back of the beautiful flame* 



NCCTURNE. 19 

Who said it, I wonder : "all faces 

Must fade in the light of but one 
The soul, like the earth, may have many 

Horizons, but only one sun ? " 

Who dreamt it ? Did I ? If I dreamt it 

'Tis true— every name passes by 
Save one; the sun wears many cloudlets 

Of gold, but has only one sky. 

And out of the flames have they faded, 

The hearts and the faces of yore ? 
Have they sunk 'neath the gray of the ashes 

To rise to my vision no more ? 

Yes, surely, or else I would see them 

To-night, just as bright as of old, 
In the white of the coals' silver flashes, 

In the red of the restless flames' gold 

Do you say I am fickle and faithless ? 

Else why are the old pictures gone ? 
And why should the visions of many 

Melt into the vision of one? 



20 KOCTUKNE. 

Nay ! list to the voice of the Heavens, 
"One Eternal alone reigns above." 

Is it true ? and all else are but idols, 
So the heart can have only one Love? 

Only one, all the rest are but idols, 
That fall from their shrines soon or late, 

When the Love that is Lord of the temple, 
Comes with sceptre and crown to the gate. 

To be faithless oft means to be faithful, 
To be false often means to be true ; 

The vale that loves clouds that are golden 
Forgets them for skies that are blue. 

To forget often means to remember 
What we had forgotten too long ; 

The fragrance is not the bright flower, 
The echo is not the sweet song. 

Am I dreaming ? No, there is the firelight, 
Gaze I ever so long, all the same 

I only can see in its glowing 
A Heart, a Face and a Name* 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 21 

Farewell! all ye hearts, names and faces! 

Only ashes now under the blaze, 
Ye never again will smile on me, 

For I'm touching the end of my days. 

And the beautiful fading firelight 

Paints, now, with a pencil of flame, 
Three pictures — yet only one picture— 

A Heart, a Face and a Name. 



THE OLD YEAR AND TEE NEW. 



p|Off swift they go, 
Sip* Life's many years, 
**• With their winds of woe 

And their storms of tears, 
And their darkest of nights whose shadowy slopes ' 
Are lit with the flashes of starriest hopes, 
And their sunshiny days in whose calm heavens loom 
The clouds of the tempest-~the shadows of the gloom! 



22 THE OLD YEAR ANE THE NEW. 

And all ! we pray 

With a grief so drear, 
That the years may stay 
When their graves are near ; 
The/ the brows of To-morrows be radiant and bright, 
With love and with beauty, with life and with light, 
The dead hearts of Yesterdays, cold on the bier, 
To the hearts that survive them, are evermore dean 

For the heart so true 

To each Old Year cleaves ; 
Tho 1 the hand of the New 
Flowery garlands weave. 
But the flowers of the future, tho' fragrant and fair, 
With the past's withered leaflets may never compare; 
For dear is each dead leaf— and dearer each thorn — 
In the wreaths which the brows of our past years have worn. 

Yea ! men will cling 

With a love to the last, 
And wildly fling 
Their arms round their past ! 
As the vine that clings to the oak that falls, 
As the ivy twines round the crumbled walls; 
For the dust of the past some hearts higher prize, 
Than the stars that flash out from the future's bright skies. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW, 23 

And why not so ? 

The old, old Years, 
They knew and they know 
All our hopes and fears ; 
We walked by their side, and we told them each grief, 
And they kissed off our tears while they whispered relief; 
And the stories of hearts that may not be revealed 
In the hearts of the dead years are buried and sealed. 

Let the New Year sing 

At the Old Year's grave : 
Will the New Year bring 
What the Old Year gave ? 
Ah ! the Stranger-Year trips over the snows, 
And his brow is wreathed with many e rose: 
But how many thorns do the roses conceal 
Which the roses, when withered, shall so soon reveal ? 

Let the New Year smile 

When the Old Year dies ; 
In how short a while 
Shall the smiles be sighs ? 
Yea! Stranger- Year, thou hast many a charm, 
And thy face is fair and thy greeting warm, 
But, dearer than thou — in his shroud of snows — 
Is the furrowed face of the Year that goes. 



24 erin's flag. 

Yea ! bright New Year, 

O'er all the earth, 
With song and cheer, 
They will hail thy birth ; 
They will trust thy words in a single hour, 
They will love thy face, they will laud thy power; 
For the New has charms which the Old has not, 
And the Stranger's face makes the Friend's forgot. 



ERIN'S FLAG. 



HwNBOLL Erin's flag! fling its folds to the 

mm® . . 

T breeze! 

Let it float o'er the land, let it flash o'er the seas! 
Lift it out of the dust — let it wave as of yore, 
When its chiefs with their clans stood around it and 

swore 
That never! no! never! while God gave them life, 
And they had an arm and a sword for the strife, 
That never ! no ! never ! that banner should yield 
As long as the heart of a Celt was its shield ; 
While the hand of a Celt had a weapon to wield, 
And his last drop of blood was unshed on the field. 



ERIE'S FLAG. 25 

Lift it up! wave it high ! 'tis as bright as of olJ ! 

Not a stain on its green, not a blot on its gold, 

Tho' the woes and the wrongs of three hundred long 

years 
Have drenched Erin's Sunburst with blood and with 

tears ! 
Though the clouds of oppression enshroud it in gloom, 
And around it the thunders of Tyranny boom. 
Look aloft! look aloft! lo! the clouds drifting by, 
There's a gleam through the gloom, there's a light in 

the sky, 
'Tis the sunburst resplendent— far, flashing on high ! 
Erin's dark night is waning, her day-dawn is nigh! 

Lift it up ! lift it up ! the old Banner of Green ! 
The blood of its sons has but brightened its shcon; 
What though the tyrant has trampled it down, 
Are its folds not emblazoned with deeds of renown ? 
What though for ages it droops in the dust, 
Shall it droop thus forever? No! no! God is just! 
Take it up ! take it up ! from the tyrant's foul tread, 
Let him tear the Green Flag — we will snatch its last 

shred, 
And beneath it we'll bleed as our forefathers bled, 
And we'll vow by the dust in the graves of our dead, 



26 erin's flag. 

And we'll swear by the blood which the Briton has shed, 
And we'll vow by the wrecks which through Erin he 

spread, 
And we'll swear by the thousands who, famished, unfed. 
Died down in the ditches, wild-howling for bread, . 
And we'll vow by our heroes, whose spirits have fled, 
And we'll swear by the bones in each coffinless bed, 
That we'll battle the Briton through danger and dread ; 
That we'll cling to the cause which we glory to wed, 
'Till the gleam of our steel and the shock of our lead 
Shall prove to our foe that we meant what we said — 
That we'll lift up the green, and we'll tear down the red! 

Lift up the Green Flag ! oh ! it wants to go home, 
Full long has its lot been to wander and roam, 
It has followed the fate of its sons o'er the world, 
But its folds, like their hopes, are not faded nor furled; 
Like a weary-winged bird, to the East and the West, 
It has flitted and fled — but it never shall rest, 
'Till, pluming its pinions, it sweeps o'er the main, 
And speeds to the shores of its old home again, 
Where its fetterless folds o'er each mountain and plain 
-s. Shall wave with a glory that never shall w r ane. 

Take it up ! take it up ! bear it back from afar ! 
That Banner must blaze 'mid the lightnings. of war; 



THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 27 

Lay your hands on its folds, lift your gaze to the sky, 
And swear that you'll bear it triumphant or die, 
And shout to the clans scattered far o'er the earth 
To join in the march to the land of their birth; 
And wherever the Exiles, 'neath heaven's broad dome, 
Have been fated to suffer, to sorrow and roam, 
They'll bound on the sea, and away o'er the foam, 
They'll sail to the music of "Home, Sweet Home! ,, 



THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE. 



HOKTH from its scabbard, pure and bright, 
t||^ Flashed the sword of Lee ! 

Far in the front of the deadly fight, 
High o'er the brave in the cause of Eight, 
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, 
Led us to Victory. 

Out of its scabbard, where, full long, 

It slumbered peacefully, 
Roused from its rest by the battle's song, 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong, 
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong, 

learned the sword of Lee. 



28 THE SWORD OF ROBERT LEE, 

Forth from its scabbard, high in air 

Beneath Virginia's sky — 
And they who saw it gleaming there, 
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
That where that sword led they would dare 

To follow— and to die. 

Out of its scabbard! Never hand 

Waved sword from stain as free, 
Nor purer sword led braver band, 
Nor braver bled for a brighter land, 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand, 
Nor cause a chief like Lee ! 

Forth from its scabbard ! How we prayed 

That sword might victor be; 
And when our triumph was delayed, 
And many a heart grew sore afraid, 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 
Of noble Eobert Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard all in vain 
Bright flashed the sword of Lee ; 

? Tis shrouded now in its sheath again, 

It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain, 

Defeated, yet without a stain, 
Proudly and peacefully. 



LIFE. 



D 1IIP -^^Y played with tlie surplice sleeve 

^R 3 Of a gentle priest; while, in accents low, 
•^ The sponsors murmured the grand "I believe/ 5 
And the priest bade the mystic waters to flow, 

In the name of the Father, and the Son, 

And Holy Spirit — Three in One. 

Spotless as a lily's leaf, 

Whiter than the Christmas snow ; 
Not a sign of sin or grief, 

And the babe laughed sweet and low. 

A smile flitted over the baby's face: 
Or was it the gleam of its angel's wing 

Just passing then, and leaving a trace 
Of its presence as it soared to sing ? 

A hymn when words and waters win 

To Grace and life a child of sin. 

(29) 



30 LIFE. 

Not an outward sign or token, 
That a child was saved from wo?, 

But the bonds of sin were broken, 
And the babe laughed sweet and low. 

A cloud rose up to the mother's eyes, 
And out of the cloud griefs rain fell fast; 

Came the baby's smiles, and the mother's sighs, 
Out of the future, or the past ? 

Ah! gleam and gloom must ever meet, 

And gall must mingle with the sweet. 

Yea, upon the baby's laughter 
Trickled tears: 'tis ever so — 

Mothers dread the dark hereafter ; 
But the babe laughed sweet and low. 

And the years like waves broke on the shore 
Of the mother's heart, and her baby's life; 

But her lone heart drifted away before 
Her little boy knew an hour of strife ; 

Drifted away on a Summer's eve, 

Ere the orphaned child knew how to grieve. 

Her humble grave was gently made 
Where roses bloomed in Summer's glow; 

The wild birds sang where her heart w T as laid, 
And her boy laughed sweet and low. 



LIFE. 31 

He drifted away from his mother's grave, 
Like a fragile flower on a great stream's tide, 

'Till he heard the moan of the mighty wave, 
That welcomed the stream to the ocean wide. 

Out from the shore and over the deep, 

He sailed away and learned to weep. 

Furrowed grew the face once fair, 

Under storms of human woe ; 
Silvered grew the dark brown hair, 

And he wailed so sad and low. 

The years swept on as erst they swept, 

Bright wavelets once, dark billows now. 
Wherever he sailed he ever wept, 

A cloud hung over the darkened brow- 
Over the deep and into the dark, 
But no one knew where sank his bark. 

Wild roses watched his mother's tomb, 
The world still laughed, 'tis ever so — 

God only knows the baby's doom, 
That laughed so sweet and low. 



A LAUGH— AND A 310 AN 



JtS|HE brook, that down the Valley 
£ tH^ So musically drips, 
•^ Flowed never half so brightly 

As the light laugh from her lips. 

Her face was like the lily, 
Her heart was like the rose, 

Her eyes were like a heaven, 
Where the sunlight always glows. 

She trod the earth so lightly 
Her feet touched not a thorn ; 

Her words wore all the brightness 
Of a young life's happy morn. 

Along her laughter rippled 

The melody of joy; 
She drank from every chalice 

And tasted no alloy* 

(32) 






A LAUGH — AND A MOAN. 33 

Her life was all a laughter, 

Her days were all a smile, 
Her heart was pure and happy, 

She knew not gloom nor guile. 

She rested on the bosom 

Of her mother, like a flower 
That blooms far in a valley 

Where no storm-clouds ever lower. 

And — "Merry! merry! merry!" 

Rang the bells of every hour, 
And — "Happy ! happy ! happy ! " 

In her valley laughed the flower. 

There was not a sign of shadow, 
There was not a tear nor thorn, 

And the sweet voice of her laughter 
Filled with melody the morn. 



Years passed — 't was long, long after, 
And I saw a face at prayer ; 

There was not a sign of laughter, 
There was every sign of care. 



3-i A LAUGH — AND A MOAN. 

For the sunshine all had faded 
From the valley and the flower, 

And the once fair face was shaded 
In life's lonely evening hour. 

And the lips that smiled with laughter 
In the valley of the morn. 

In the valley of the evening 
They were pale and sorrow-worn. 

And I read the old, old lesson 
In her face and in her tears, 

While she sighed amid the shadows 
Of the sunset of her years. 

All the rippling streams of laughter 
From our hearts and lips that flow, 

Shall be frozen, cold years after, 
Into icicles of w T oe. 



IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER. 



gBsOXTNG as the youngest who donned the Gray, 
'43? True as tie truest that wore it, 

^° Brave as the bravest he marched away, 
(Hot tears on the cheeks of his mother lay,) 
Triumphant waved our flag one day— 
He fell in the front before it, 

Firm as the firmest, where duty led, 

He hurried without a falter; 
Bold as the boldest he fought and bled, 
And the day was won— but the field was red— 
And the blood of his fresh young heart was shed 

On his country's hallowed altar. 

On the trampled breast of the battle plain 
Where the foremost ranks had wrestled, 

On his pale pure face not a mark of pain, 

(His mother dreams they will meet again,) 

The fairest form amid aU the slain, 
Like a child asleep he nestled. 

(35) 



36 "out of the depths." 

In the solemn shades of the wood that swept 
The field where his comrades found him, 

They buried him there — and the big tears crept 

Into strong men's e3 T es that had seldom wept. 

(His mother — God pity her — smiled and slept, 
Dreaming her arms were around him.) 

A grave in the woods with the grass o'ergrown, 

A grave in the heart of his mother — 
His clay in the one lies lifeless and lone ; 
There is not a name, there is not a stone, 
And only the voice of the winds maketh moan 
O'er the grave where never a flower is strewn, 
But — his memory lives in the other. 



" OUT OF TEE DEPTHS:' 



IgOST! Lost! Lost! 
7p^ The cry went up from a sea— 
& The waves were wild with an awful wrath, 
Not a light shone down on the lone ship's path ; 
The clouds hung low: 
Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Rose wild from the hearts of the tompest tossed. 






"out of the depths." 37 

Lost! Lost! Lost! 
The cry floated over the waves — 
Far over the pitiless waves ; 
It smote on the dark and it rended the clouds ; 
The billows below them were weaving white shrouds 
Out of the foam of the surge, 
And the wind-voices chanted a dirge: 
Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Wailed wilder the lips of the tempest-tossed. 

Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Not the sign of a hope was nigh, 
In the sea, in the air or the sky ; 
And the lifted faces were wan and white, 
There was nothing without them but storm and night. 
And nothing within but fear; 
But for to a Father's ear, 
Lost! Lost! Lost! 
Floated the wail of the tempest-tossed. 

Lost! Lost! Lost 1 
Out of the depths of the sea — 
Out of the night and the sea; 

And the waves and the winds of tho storm were hushed. 
And the sky with the gleams of the stars was flushed. 



38 A THOUGHT. 

Saved! Saved! Saved! 
And a calm and a joyous cry 
Floated up through the starry sky, 
In the dark— in the storm — " Our Father" is nigh. 



A THOUGHT. 



H|| HE summer rose the sun has flushed 
s^pf With crimson glory, may be sweet — 
^ *T is sweeter when its leaves are crushed 
Beneath the winds' and tempests' feet. 

The rose, that waves upon its tree, 
In life, sheds perfume all around — 

More sweet the perfume floats to me 
Of roses trampled on the ground. 

The waving rose, with every breath 
Scents, carelessly the summer air — 

The wounded rose bleeds forth in death 
A sweetness far more rich and rare. 

It is a truth beyond our ken — 

And yet a truth that all may read- 
It is with roses as with men, 
v The sweetest hearts are those that bleed. 



MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. 39 

The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom 

Out of a heart all full of grace, 
Gave never forth its full perfume 

Until the cross became its vase. 



MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. 



MATHER the sacred dust 
SSk* Of the warriors tried and true, 

•^ Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust 
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, 
And died for me and you. 

Gather them one and all, 

From the private to the chief, 
Come they from hovel or princely hall, 
They fell for us, and for them should fall 
The tears of a Nation's grief. 

Gather the corpses strewn 

O'er many a battle plain ; 
From many a grave that lies so lone, 
Without a name and without a stone, 

Gather the Southern slain. 



40 MARCH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. 

We care not whence they came, 

Dear in their lifeless clay ! 
Whether unknown, or known to fame, 
Their cause and country still the same; 

They died — and wore the Gray. 

Wherever the brave have died, 

They should not rest apart; 
Living, they struggled side by side, 
Why should the hand of Death divide 

A single heart from heart? 

Gather their scattered clay, 

Wherever it may rest ; 
Just as they marched to the bloody fray, 
Just as they fell on the battle day, 

Bury them breast to breast. 

The foeman need not dread 

This gathering of the brave; 
Without sword or flag, and with soundless tread, 
We muster once more our deathless dead, 

Out of each lonely grave. 

The foeman need not frown, 

They all are powerless now; 



REUNITED. 41 

Wq gather them here and we lay them down, 
And tears and prayers are the only crown 
We bring to wreathe each brow. 

And the dead thus meet the dead, 

While the living o'er them weep ; 
And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, 
And the hearts that once together bled, 
Together still shall sleep. 



BEUNITED. 

WRITTEN AFTER TOE YELLOW FEVER EPIDEMIC OF 1878. 



cjXlilllTRER than thy own white snow, 
"rik 3 Nobler than thy mountains' height; 

•^ Deeper than the ocean's flow, 
Stronger than thy own proud might; 

Oh ! Northland, to thy sister land, 

Was late thy mercy's generous deed and grand. 



42 REUNITED. 

Nigh twice ten years, the sword was sheathed : 

Its mist of green o'er battle plain 
For nigh two decades Spring had breathed; 

And yet the crimson life-blood stain 
From passive swards had never paled, 
"Nor fields, where all were brave and some had failed. 

Between the Northland, bride of snow, 
And Southland, brightest sun's fair bride, 

Swept, deepening ever in its flow, 
The stormy wake, in war's dark tide : 

No hand might clasp across the tears 

And blood and anguish of four deathless years. 

When Summer, like a rose in bloom, 
Had blossomed from the bud of Spring, 

Oh ! who could deem the dews of doom 
Upon the blushing lips could cling? 

And who could believe its fragrant light 

Would e'er be freighted with the breath of blight? 

Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell, 
That e'en from out its brightness spread; 

And prostrate, powerless, she fell, 
Eachel-like, amid her dead. 

Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, 

The waiting grave would welcome, as its guest* 






REUNITED. 43 

The Northland, strong in love, and great, 

Forgot the stormy days of strife ; 
Forgot that souls, with dreams of hate 

Or unforgiveness, e'er were rife. 
Forgotten was each thought and hushed; 
Save — she was generous and her foe was crushed. 

No hand might clasp, from land to land ; 

Yea ! there was one to bridge the tide ; 
For at the touch of Mercy's hand 

The North and South stood side by side : 
The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, 
In Charity's espousals are made one. 

"Thou givest back my sons again," 

The Southland to the Northland cries ; 
"For all my dead, on battle plain, 

Thou biddest my dying now uprise : 
I still my sobs, I cease my tears, 
And thou hast recompensed my anguished years. 

"Blessings on thine every wave, 

Blessings on thine every shore, 
Blessings that from soitoavs save, 

Blessings giving more and more, 
For all thou gavest thy sister land, 
Oh ! Northland, in thy generous deed and grand." 



A MEMORY. 



fH^DOWX the valley dripped a stream, 
6 7& i> White lilies drooped on either side; 
•^ Our hearts, in spite of us, will dream 
In such a place, at eventide. 

Bright wavelets wove the scarf of blue 
That well became the valley fair, 

And grassy fringe of greenest hue 
Hung round its borders everywhere. 

And where the stream, in wayward whirls, 
Went winding in and winding out, 

Lay, shells, that wore the look of pearls 
Without their pride, all strewn about. 

And here and there along the strand, 
Where some ambitious wave had strayed, 

Rose little monuments of sand 
As frail as those by mortals made. 



A MEMCRY. 45 

And many a flower was blooming there 

In beauty, yet without a name, 
Like humble hearts that often bear 

The gifts, but not the palm of fame. 

The rainbow's tints could never vie 
With all the colors that they wore ; 

While bluer than the bluest sky, 
The stream flowed on 'tween shore and shore. 

And on the height, and down the side 

Of cither hill that hid the place, 
Iiose elms in all the stately pride 

Of youthful strength and ancient race. 

While here and there the trees between- 
Bearing the scars of battle-shocks, 

And frowning wrathful — might be seen 
The moss-veiled faces of the rocks. 

And round the rocks crept flowered vinc3, 
And clomb the trees that towered high — 

The type of a lofty thought that twines 
Around a truth — to touch the sky. 



46 A MEMORY. 

And to that vale, from first of May 
Until the last of August went, 

Beauty, the exile, came each day 
In all her charms, to cast her tent. 

'Twas there, one long-gone August day, 
I wandered down the valley fair : 

The spell has never passed away 
That fell upon my spirit there. 

The summer sunset glorified 
The clouded face of dying day, 

Which flung a smile upon the tide 
And lilies, ere he passed away. 

And o'er the valley's grassy slopes 
There fell an evanescent sheen, 

That flashed and faded, like the hopes 
That haunt us of what might have been. 

And rock and tree flung back the light 
Of all the sunsets golden gems, 

As if it were beneath their right 
To wear such borrowed diadems. 



A MEMORY. 47 

Low in the west gleam after gleam 
Glowed faint and fainter, till the last 

Made the dying day a living dream, 
To last as long as life shall last 

And in the arches of the trees 

The wild birds slept with folded wing, 

And e'en the lips of the summer-breeze, 
That sang all day, had ceased to sing. 

And all was silent, save the rill 

That rippled round the lilies' feet, 
And sang, while stillness grew more still 

To listen to the murmur sweet. 

And now and then it surely seemed 
The little stream was laughing low, 

As if its sleepy wavelets dreamed 
Such dreams as only children know. 

So still that not the faintest breath 

Did stir the shadows in the air; 
It would have seemed the home of Death, 

Had I not felt Life sleeping there. 



48 A MEMORY. 

And slow and soft-, and soft and slow, 
From darkling earth and darkened sky, 

Wide wings of gloom waved to and fro, 
And spectral shadows flitted by. 

And then, methought, upon the sward 
I saw — or was it starlight's ray ? 

Or angels come to watch and guard 
The valley till the dawn of day? 

Is every lower life the ward 

Of spirits more divinely wrought ? 

"lis sweet to believe 'tis God's, and hard 
To think 'tis but a poet's thought. 

But God's or poet's thought, I ween 
My senses did not fail me, when 

I saw veiled angels watch that scene 
And guard its sleep, as they guard men. 

Sweet sang the stream as on it pressed, 
As sorrow sings a heart to sleep, 

As a mother sings one child to rest 
And for the dead one still will weep. 



A MEMORY. 49 

I walked adown the singing stream, 

The lilies slept on either side; 
My heart — it could not help but dream 

At eye, and after eventide. 

Ah ! dreams of such a lofty reach 
With more than earthly fancies fraught, 

That not the strongest wings of speech 
Could ever touch their lowest thought. 

Dreams of the Bright, the Fair, the Far — 
Heart-fancies flashing Heaven's hue — 

That swept around, as sweeps a star 
The boundless orbit of the True. 

Yea! dreams all free from earthly taint, 
Where human passion played no part, 

As pure as thoughts that thrill a saint, 
Or hunt an archangolic heart. 

Ah ! dreams that did not rise from sense, 

And rose too high to stoop to it, 
And framed aloft like frankincense 

In censers round the infinite. 



50 A MEMORY. 

Yea! dreams that vied with angels' flight! 

And, soaring bore my heart away 
Beyond the far star-bounds of night, 

Unto the everlasting day. 

How long I strolled beside the stream 
I do not know, nor may I say; 

But when the poet ceased to dream 
The priest went on his knees to pray. 

I felt as sure a Seraph feels, 
When in some golden hour of gracs 

God smiles, and suddenly reveals 
A new, strange, Glory in His Face. 

Ah ! star-lit valley ! Lilies white ! 

The poet dreamed — ye slumbered deep! 
But when the priest knelt down that night 

And prayed, why woke ye from your sleep ? 



The stream sang down the valley fair, 
I saw the wakened lilies nod, 

I knew they heard me whisper there : 
" How beautiful art Thou, my God! " 



AT LAST. 



IpNTO a temple vast and dim, 
&^ Solemn and vast and dim, 
■"• Just when the last sweet Vesper Hymn 
Was floating far away, 
With eye3 that tabernacled tears— 
Her heart the home of tears—* 
And cheeks Wan with the woes of years* 
A woman went one day* 

And, one by one, adown the aisles, 
Adown the long, lone aisles, 
Their faces bright with holy smiled 

That follow after prayer, 
The worshippers in silence passed, 
In silence slowly passed away; 
The woman knelt until the last 

Had left her lonely there* 

A holy hush came o'er the place, 

O'er the holy place, 

The shadows kissed her woe worn face, 

(51) 



52 AT LAST. 

Her forehead touched the floor; 
The wreck that drifted thro' the years — 
Sin-driven thro 1 the years — 
Was floating o'er the tide of tears, 

To Mercy's golden shore. 

Her lips were sealed, they could not pray, 
They sighed, but could not pray, 
All words of prayer had died away 

From them long years ago; 
But ah ! from out her eyes there rose — 
Sad from her eyes there rose — 
The prayer of tears, which swiftest goes 

To Heaven — winged with woe. 

With weary tears, her weary eyes, 

Her joyless, weary eyes, 

Wailed forth a rosary; and her sighs 

And sobs strung all the beads ; 
The while before her spirit's gaze — 
Her contrite spirit's gaze— 
Moved all the mysteries of her days, 

And histories of her deeds. 

Still as a shadow, while she wept, 

So desolately wept, 

Up thro' the long, lone aisle she crept 






A LAND WITHOUT EUINS 53 

Unto an altar fair; 
" Mother ! " — her pale lips said no more — 
Could say no more — 
The wreck, at last, reached Mercy's shore, 

For Mary's shrine was there. 



A LAND WITHOUT RUINS. 



"Aland without ruins is a land without memories— a land without 
memories is a land without history. A land that wears a laurel crown 
may be fair to see ; but twine a few sad cypress leaves around the brow 
of any land, and be that land barren, beautiless and bleak, it becomes 
lovely in its consecrated coronet of sorrow, and it wins the sympathy of 
the heart and of history. Crowns of roses fade— crowns of thorns 
endure. Calvaries and crucifixions take deepest hold of humanity— the 
triumphs of might are transient— they pass and are forgotten— the 
sufferings of right are graven deepest on the chronicle of nations. 1 ' 



iTfilPtES, give me the land where the ruins are 
"Spfe 9 spread, 

•^ And the living tread light on the hearts of 
the dead; 
}Tes, give me a land that is blest by the dust, 
And bright with the deeds of the down-trodden just 
Yes, give me the land where the battle's red blast 
Has flashed to the future the fame of the past; 
Yes, give me the land that hath legends and lays 
That tell of the memories of long vanished days; 



54 MEMORIES. 

Yes, give me a land that hatli story and song ! 
Enshrine the strife of the right with the wrong! 
Yes, give me a land with a grave in each spot, 
And names in the graves that shall not be forgot; 
Yes, give me the land of the wreck and the tomb; 
There is granduer in graves — there is glory in glcom; 
For out of the gloom future brightness is born, 
As after the night comes the sunrise of morn ; 
And the graves of the dead "with the grass overgrown 
May yet form the footstool of liberty's throne, 
And each single wreck in the war-path of might, 
Shall yet be a rock in the temple of right 



MEMORIES. 



kS: 



]I|ffl|HEY come, as the breeze comes over the foam, 

^r 9 Waking the waves that are sinking to sleep— 

•^ The fairest of memories from far-away home, 

The dim dreams of faces beyond the dark deep. 



They come as the stars come otlt in the sky, 
That shimmer wherever the shadows may sweep, 

And their steps are as soft as the sound of a sigh, 
And I welcome them all while I wearily weep. 



MEMORIES. 55 

They come as a song comes out of the past 
A loved mother murmured in days that are dead, 

Whose tones spirit-thrilling live on to the last, 
When the gloom of the heart wraps its gray o'er the 
head. 

They come like the ghosts from the grass shrouded 
graves, 

And they follow our footsteps on life's winding way; 
And they murmur around us as murmur the waves 

That sigh on the shore at the dying of day. 

They come, sad as tears to the eyes that are bright; 

They come, sweet as smiles to the lips that are pale; 
They come, dim as dreams in the depths of the night; 

They come, fair as flowers to the summerless vale. 

There is not a heart that is not haunted so, 
Though far we may stray from the scenes of the past, 

Its memories will follow wherever we go, 
And the days that were first sway the days that are last. 



THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. 



^l^^pY brow is bent beneath a heavy rod! 

" ^|^ My face is wan and white with many woes! 
•^ But I will lift my poor chained hands to God, 

And for my children pray, and for my foes. 
Beside the graves where thousands lowly lie 

I kneel, and weeping for each slaughtered son, 
I turn my gaze to my own sunny sky, 

And pray, oh! Father, let Thy will be done! 

My heart is filled with anguish, deep and vast! 

My hopes are buried with my children's dust ! 
My joys have fled, my tears are flowing fast! 

In whom, save Thee, our Father, shall I trust ? 
Ah ! I forgot Thee, Father, long and oft, 

When I was happy, rich, and proud, and free ; 
But conquered now, and crushed, I look aloft, 

And sorrow leads me, Father, back to Thee. 

(56) 



THE PKAYEE OF THE SOUTH. 57 

Amid the wrecks that mark the foaman's path 

I kneel, and wailing o'er my glories gone, 
I still each thought of hate, each throb of wrath, 

And whisper, Father, let Thy will be done ! 
Pity me, Father of the desolate ! 

Alas! My burdens are so hard to bear; 
Look down in mercy on my wretched fate, 

And keep me, guard me, with Thy loving care. 

Pity me, Father, for His holy sake, 

Whose broken heart bled at the feet of grief, 
That hearts of earth, whenever they shall break, 

Might go to His and find a sure relief. 
Ah, me, how dark ! Is this a brief eclipse ? 

Or is it night with no morrow's sun? 
Oh, Father! Father! with my pale, sad lips, 

And sadder heart, I pray, Thy will be done. 

My homes are joyless, and a million mourn 

Where many met in joys forever flown ; 
Whose hearts were light, are burdened now and torn; 

Where many smiled, but one is left to moan. 
And, ah 1 the widow's wails, the orphan's crie^, 

Are morning hymn and vesper chant to me ; 
And groans of men and sounds of women's sighs 

Commingle, Father, with my prayer to Thee. 



58 THE PRATEPw OF THE SOUTH. 

Beneath iny feet ten thousand children dead — 

Oh ! how I loved each known and nameles one ! 
Above their dust I bow my crownless head 

And murmur: Father, still Thy will be done* 
Ah ! Father, Thou didst deck my own loved land 

With all bright charms, and beautiful and fair ; 
But foeman came, and with a ruthless hand, 

Spread ruin, wreck and desolation there. 

Girdled with gloom, of all my brightness shorn, 

And garmented with grief, I kiss Thy rod, 
And turn my face, with tears all wet and worn, 

To catch one smile of pity from my God. 
Around me blight, where all before was bloom, 

And sc much lo3t, alas ! and nothing won 
Dave this — that I can lean on wreck and tomb 

And weep, and weeping, pray, Thy will be done. 

And oil ! 'tis hard to say, but said, 'tis sweet ; 

The words are bitter, but they hold a balm— 
A balm that heals the wounds of my defeat, 

And lulls my sorrows into holy calm. 
It is the prayer of prayers, and how it brings, 

When heard in heaven, peace and hope to me ! 
When Jesus prayed it did not angels' wings 

Gleam 'mid the darkness of Gethsemane ? 



THE PRAYER OF THE SOUTH. 59 

My children, Father, Thy forgiveness need; 

Alas ! their hearts have only place for tears ! 
Forgive them, Father, ev'ry wrongful deed, 

And ev'ry sin of those four bloody years; 
And give them strength to bear their boundless loss, 

And from their hearts take every thought of hate; 
And while they climb their Calvary with their Cross, 

Oh ! help them, Father, to endure its weight. 

And for my dead, my Father, may I pray ? 

Ah! sighs may soothe, but prayer shall soothe me more! 
I keep eternal watch above their clay; 

Oh! rest their souls, my Father, I implore! 
Forgive my foes— they know not what they do — 

Forgive them all the tears they made me shed ; 
Forgive them, though my noblest sons they slew, 

And bless them, though they curse my poor, dear dead. 

Oh! may my woes be each a carrier- dove, 

With swift, white wings, that, bathing in my tears, 
Will bear Thee, Father, all my prayers of love, 

And bring me peace in all my doubts and fears. 
Father, I kneel, 'mid ruin, wreck and grave — 

A desert waste, where all was erst so fair — 
And for my children and my foes I crave 

Pity and pardon. Father, henr my prayer! 



FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 

"A NIGHT-PRAYER." 



g| ARK! Dark! Dark! 
S^k 3 The sun is set; the day is dead, 
& Thy Feast has fled; 

My eyes are wet with tears unshed] 

I bow my head ; 
Where the star-fringed shadows softly sway 

I bend my knee, 
And, like a homesick child, I pray, 
Mary, to thee. 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
And, all the day — since white-robed priest 

la farthest East, 
In dawn's first ray— began the Feast, 

I — I the least — 
Thy least, and last and lowest child, 

I called on thee ! 
Virgin! did'st hear? my words were wild; 

Did'st think of me ? 

(60) 



FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 61 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
Alas! and no! The angels bright, 

With wings as white 
As a dream of snow in love and light, 

Flashed on thy sight; 
They shone like stars around thee ! Queen ! 

I knelt afar— 
A shadow only dims the sceno 

Where shines a star ! 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
And all day long, beyond the sky, 

Sweet, pure and high, 
The angels' song swept sounding by 

Triumphantly; 
And when such music tilled thy car, 

Eose round thy throne, 
How could I hope that thou would'st hear 

My far, faint moan ? 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
And all day long, where altars stand, 

Or poor or grand, 
A countless throng from every land, 

With lifted hand, 



62 FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 

Winged hymns to thee from sorrow's vale 

In glad acclaim, 
How could'st thou hear my lone lips wail 

Thy sweet, pure name? 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
Alas ! and no ! Thou did'st not hear 

Nor bend thy ear, 
To prayer of woe as mine so drear; 

For hearts more dear 
Hid me from hearing and from sight 

This bright Feast-day ; 
Wilt hear me, Mother, if in its night, 

I kneel and pray ? 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
The sun is set, the clay is dead ; 

Thy Feast hath fled; 
My eyes are wet with the tears I shed ; 

I bow my head ; 
Angels and altars hailed thee Queen 

All day; ah! be 
To night what thou hast ever been — 

A mother to me ! 






FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION. 63 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
Thy queenly crown in angels' sight 

Is fair and bright; 
Ah ! lay it down ; for, oh ! to-night 

Its jewelled light 
Shines not as the tender love light shines, 

Mary ! mild, 
In the mother's eyes, whose pure heart pines 

For poor, lost child ! 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
Sceptre in hand, thou dost hold sway 

Fore'er and aye 
In angel-land; but, fair Queen! pray 

Lay it away. 
Let thy sceptre wave in the realms above 

Where angels are ; 
But, Mother ! fold in thine arms of love 

Thy child afar ! 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
Mary! I call! Wilt hear t\\Q prayer 

My poor lips dare? 
Yea! be to all a Queen most fair, 

Crown, sceptre, bear! 



64: SUESUM CORDA. 

But look on me with a mother's eyes 

From heaven's bliss ; 
And waft to me from the starry skie3 

A mother s kiss ! 

Dark! Dark! Dark! 
The sun is set— the day is dead ; 

Her Feast has fled ; 
Can she forget the sweet blood shed, 

The last words said 
That evening — "Woman! behold thy Son! " 

Oh! priceless right, 
Of all His children! The last, least one 

Is heard to-nisrht. 



SUESUM CORDA. 



ii5™8^EARY hearts! weary hearts! by the cares of 
*j&? life oppressed, 
«"• Ye are wand'ring in the shadows — ye are sigh- 
ing for a rest: 
There is darkness in the heavens, and the earth is bleak 

below, 
And the joys we taste to-day may to-morrow turn to wee. 
Weary hearts! God is rest. 



SURSUM CORDA. 65 

Lonely hearts! lonely hearts ! this is but a land of grief; 
Ye are pining for repose — ye are longing for relief: 
What the world hath never given 3 kneel and ask of God 

above, 
And your grief shall turn to gladness, if you lean upon 

His love. 

Lonely hearts ! God is Love. 

Eestless hearts ! restless hearts ! ye are toiling night and 

day, 
And the flowers of life, all withered, leave but thorns 

along your way : 
Ye are waiting, ye are waiting, till your toilings all shall 

cease, 

And your ev'ry restless beating is a sad, sad prayer for 

peace. 

Eestless hearts! God is Peace. 

Breaking hearts ! broken hearts ! ye are desolate and lone, 
And low voices from the past o'er your present ruins 

moan I 
In the sweetest of your pleasures there was bitterest 

alloy, 
And a starless night hath followed on the sunset of your 

joy. 

Broken hearts! God is Joy* 



66 A child's wish. 

Homeless hearts ! homeless hearts ! through the dreary, 

dreary years, 
Ye are lonely, lonely wand'rers, and your way is wet 

with tears ; 
In bright or blighted places, wheresoever ye may roam, 
Ye look away from earth-land, and ye murmur "where 

is home ? " 

Homeless hearts ! God is Home. 



A CHILD'S WISH 

BEFORE AN ALTAR. 



I WISH I were the little key, 
r ^B\ That locks Love's Captive in, 
^ And lets him out to go and free 
A sinful heart from sin. 

I wish I were the little bell 

That tinkles for the Host, 
When God comes down each day to dwell 

With hearts he loves the most. 



a child's wish. 67 

I wish I were the chalice fair, 

That holds the Blood of Love, 
When every flash lights holy prayer 

Upon its way above. 

I wish I were the little flower 

So near the Host's sweet face, 
Or like the light that half an hour 

Burns on the shrine of grace. 

I wish I were the altar where, 

As on His mother's breast, 
Christ nestles, like a child, fore'er 

In Eucharistic rest. 

But, oh ! my God, I wish the most 

That my poor heart may be 
A home all holy for each Host 

That comes in love to me» 



" PRESENTIMENT." 
"my sister." 



fijOMETH a voice from a far-land ! 



*7&\ Beautiful, sad and low, 



^ Shineth a light from the star-land! 

Down on the night of my woe, 
And a white hand, with a garland, 

Biddeth my spirit to go, 

Away and afar from the night-land, 
Where sorrow o'ershadows my way, 

To the splendors and skies of the light-land, 
Where reigneth eternity's day, 

To the cloudless and shadowless bright-land, 
Whose sun never pass:th away. 

And I knew the voice; not a sweeter 

On earth or in heaven can be; 
And never did shalow pass fleeter 

Than it, and its strange melody; 
And I know I must hasten to meet her, 

"Yea! Sister! Thou callest to me ! " 

(G8) 



LAST OF MAY. 69 

And I saw the light; 'twas not seeming, 
It flashed from the crown that she wore, 

And the brow, that with jewels was gleaming, 
My lips had kissed often of yore! 

And the eyes, that with rapture were beaming, 
Had smiled on me sweetly before. 

And I saw the hand with the garland, 

Ethel's hand — holy and fair ; 
Who went long ago to the far land 

To weave me the wreath I shall wear ; 
And, to-night, I look up to the star -land, 

And pray that I soon may be there. 



LAST OF MAT. 

TO THE CltlLDHEN OF MAHY OF TUE CATHEDRAL OF MOUftiE. 



SIN the mystical dim of the temple, 
hB\ In the dream-haunted dim of the day, 
^ The sunlight spoke soft to the shadows, 

And said : " With my gold and your gray, 
Let us meet at the shrine of the Virgin* 

And ere her fair feast pass away, 
Let us weave there a mantle of glory, 

To deck the last evening of May." 



LAST OF MAY. 

The tapers were lit on the altar, 

With garlands of lilies between ; 
And the steps leading up to the statue 

Flashed bright with the roseo' red sheen; 
The sungleams came down from the heavens 

Like angels, to hallow the scene, 
And they seemed to kneel down with the shadows 

That crept to the shrine of the Queen. 

The singers, their hearts in their voices, 

Had chanted the anthems of old, 
And the last trembling wave of the Vespers 

On the far-shores of silence had rolled. 
And there— at the Queen-Virgin's altar— 

The sun wove the mantle of gold, 
While the hands of the twilight were weaving 

A fringe for the flash of each fold. 

And wavelessly, in the deep silence, 

Three banners hung peaceful and low— 
They bore the bright blue of the heavens, 

They wore the pure white of the snow — 
And beneath them fair children were kneeling, 

Whose faces* with graces aglow, 
Seemed sinless, in land that is sinful, 

And woeless, in life full of woe. 



LAST OF MAY. 71 

Their heads wore the veil of the lily, 

Their brows wore the wreath of the rose, 
And their hearts, like their flutterlesg banners, 

Were stilled in a holy repose. 
Their shadowless eyes were uplifted, 

Whose glad gaze would never disclose 
That from eyes that are most like the heavens 

The dark rain of tears soonest flows. 

The banners were borne to the railing, 

Beneath them, a group from each band, 
And they bent their bright folds for the blessing 

That fell from the priest's lifted hand. 
And he signed the three fair, silken standards, 

With a sign never foe could withstand. 
What stirred them? The breeze of the evening? 

Or a breath from the far angel-land? 

Then came, two by two, to the altar, 

The young, and the pure, and the fair, 
Their faces the mirror of heaven, 

Their hands folded meekly in prayer. 
They came for a simple blue ribbon, 

For love of Christ's Mother to wear; 
And I believe, with the Children of Mary, 

The Angels of Mary were there. 



72 LAST OF MAY. 

Ah ! faith ! simple faith of the children! 

You still shame the faith of the old! 
Ah ! love ! simple love of the little, 

You still warm the love of the cold! 
And the beautiful God who is wandering 

Far out in the world's dreary wold, 
Finds a home in the hearts of the children 

And a rest with the lambs of the fold. 

Swept a voice: was it wafted from heaven? 

Heard you ever the sea when it sings, 
Where it sleeps on the shore in the night-time ? 

Heard you ever the hymns the breeze brings 
From the hearts of a thousand bright summers ? 

Heard you ever the bird, when she springs 
To the clouds, till she seems to be only 

A song of a shadow on wings ? 

Came a voice : and an " Ave Maria " 

Rose out of a heart rapture-thrilled; 
And in the embrace of its music 

The souls of a thousand lay stilled. 
A voice with the tones of an angel, 

Never flower such a sweetness distilled ; 
It faded away — but the temple 

With its perfume of worship was filled. 



"GONE." 73 

Then back to the Queen- Virgin's altar 

The white veils swept on, two by two ; 
And the holiest halo of heaven 

Flashed out from the ribbons of blue ; 
And they laid down the wreaths of the rosc3 

Whose hearts were as pure as their hue, 
Ah ! they to the Christ are the truest, 

Whose loves to the Mother are true! 

And thus, in the dim of the temple, 

In the dream-haunted dim of the day, 
The Angels and Children of Mary 

Met ere their Queen's Feast passed away, 
Where the smigleams knelt down witii the shadows, 

And wove with their gold and their gray 
A mantle of grace and of glory 

For the last, lovely evening of May. 



"GONE." 

S.M.A. 




f ONE ! and there's not a gleam of you, 
S^ 9 Faces that float into far away ; 
•^ Gone! and we can only dream of you, 
Each as you fade like a star away; 



74: " GONE." 

Fade as a star in the sky from us, 
Vainly we look for your light again ; 

Hear ye the sound of a sigh from us ? 
" Come ! w and our hearts will be bright again, 

Come ! and gaze on our face once more, 

Bring us the smiles of the olden days ; 
Come ! and shine in your place once more, 

And change the dark into golden days. 
Gone! gone ! gone! Joy is fled for us, 

Gone into the night of the nevermore, 
And darkness rests where you shed for us 

A light we will miss forevermore. 

Faces ! ye come in the night to us ; 

Shadows ! ye float in the sky of sleep ; 
Shadows ! ye bring nothing bright to us ; 

Faces ! ye are but the sigh of sleep. 
Gone ! and there's not a gleam of you, 

Faces that float into the far away ; 
Gone ! and we only can dream of you 

Till we sink like you and the stars away. 



FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART. 



|»W0 lights on a lowly altar; 
t|P Two snowy cloths for a Feast ; 
■"• Two vases of dying roses. 

The morning comes from the east, 
With a gleam for the folds of the vestments 

And a grace for the face of the priest. 

The sound of a low, sweet whisper 

Floats over a little bread, 
And trembles around a chalice, 

And the priest bows down his head ! 
O'er a sign of white on the altar — 

In the cup — o'er a sign of red. 

As red as the red of roses, 
As white as the white of snows! 

But the red is a red of a surface 
Beneath which a God's blood flows ; 

And the white is the white of a sunlight 
Within which a God's flesh glows. 

(73) 



76 FEAST OF THE SACRED HEART. 

Ah ! words of the olden Thursday ! 

Ye come from the far-away ! 
Ye bring us the Friday's victim 

In His own love's olden way. 
In the hand of the priest at the altar 

His Heart finds a home each day. 

The sight of a Host uplifted ! 

The silver-sound of a bell ! 
The gleam of a golden chalice. 

Be glad, sad heart! 'tis well; 
He made, and He keeps love's promise, . 

With thee, all days to dwell. 

Prom his hand to his lips that tremble, 
From his lips to his heart a thrill, 

Goes the little Host on its love-path 
Still doing the Father's will; 

And overthe rim of the chalice 
The blood flows forth to fill 

The heart of the man anointed 

With the waves of a wondrous grace ; 

A silence falls on the altar — 
An awe on each bended face— 

For the Heart that bled on Calvary 
Still beats in the holy place. 






IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE. 77 

The priest comes down to the railing 

Where brows are bowed in prayer; 
In the tender clasp of his lingers 

A Host lies pure and fair, 
And the hearts of Christ and the Christian 

Meet there — and only there ! 

Oh! love that is deep and deathless! 

Oh! faith that is strong and grand! 
Oh! hope that will shine forever, 

O'er the wastes of a weary land ! 
Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven 

In the palm of the priest's pure hand. 



IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J". B. ETIENtilt, 

SUPERIOR GENERAL OF TnE CONGREGATION OF TnE MISSION 
AND OF THE SISTERS OF CHARITY* 






tSffim SHADOW slept folded in vestments, 
S&f The dream of a smile on its face, 
«"• Dim, soft as the gleam after sunset 
That hangs like a halo of grace 
Where the daylight hath died in the valley, 
And the twilight hath taken its place — 



78 IN MEMORY OF VERY REV. J. B. ETIENNE. 

A shadow ! but still on the mortal 
There rested the tremulous trace 

Of the joy of a spirit immortal, 
Passed up to its God in His grace. 

A shadow ! hast seen in the summer 

A cloud wear the smile of the sun ? 
On the shadow of death there is flashing 

The glory of noble deeds done ; 
On the face of the dead there is glowing 

The light of a holy race run ; 
And the smile of the face is reflecting 

The gleam of the crown he has won. 
Still, shadow! sleep on in the vestments 

Unstained by the priest. who has gone* 

And thro' all the nations the children 

Of Vincent de Paul wail his loss ; 
But the glory that crowns him in heaven 

Illumines the gloom of their cross. 
They send to the shadow the tribute 

Of tears, from the fountains of love, 
And they send from their altars sweet prayer^ 

To the throne of their Father above. 



TEARS. 79 

Yea ! sorrow weeps over the shadow, 

But faith' looks aloft to the skies ; 
And hope, like a rainbow, is flashing 

O'er the tears that rain down from their eyes. 
They murmur on earth " De profundis," 

The low chant is mingled with sighs ; 
11 Laudate" rings out through the heavens— 

The dead priest hath won his faith's prize* 

Ilis children in sorrow will honor 

His grave ; every tear is a gem, 
And their prayers round his brow in the heavens 

Will brighten his fair diadem. 
I kneel at his grave and remember, 

In love, I am still one of them. 




TEAR 8. 

|HE tears that trickled down our eyes, 
7?qc They do not touch the earth to day; 
•N* But soar like angels to the skies, 
And like the angels, may not diej 
For ah I our immortality 
Flows thro' each tear— sounds in each sigh. 



80 TEARS. 

What waves of tears surge o'er the deep 

Of sorrow, in our restless souls! 
And they are strong, not weak, who weep, 
Those drops from out the sea that rolls 
Within their hearts forevermore ; 
Without a depth— without a shore. 

But ah! the tears that are not wept, 
The tears that never outward fall; 
The tears that grief for years has kept 
Within us — they are best of all: 

The tears our eyes shall never know, 
Are dearer than the tears that flow. 

Each night upon earth's flowers below, 

The dew comes down from darkest skies, 
And every night our tears of woo 
Go up like dews to Paradise, 

To keep in bloom, and make more fair, 
The flowers of crowns Ave yet shall wean 

For ah ! the surest way to God 

Is up the lonely streams of tears* 
That flow, when bending 'neath His rod* 
And fill the tide of earthly years. 

On laughter's billows hearts are tossed* 
On waves of tears no heart is lost; 



LINES. 81 

Flow on, ye tears! and bear me home; 

Flow not ! ye tears of deeper woe ; 
Flow on, ye tears! that are but foam 
Of deeper waves that will not flow. 
A little while — I reach the shore 
Where tears flow not forevermore ! 



LINES. 

TWO LOVES. 



«i w|WO loves came up a long, wide aisle, 
S§ k 3 And knelt at a low, white gate ; 
Ji One — tender and true, with the shyest smile, 
One— strong, true and elate. 

Two lips spoke in a firm, true way, 
And two lips answered soft and low, 

In one true hand such a little hand lay 
Fluttering, frail as a flake of snow. 

One stately head bent humbly there, 
Stilled where the throbbings of human love; 

One head drooped down like a lily fair, 
Two prayers went, wing to wing, above. 



82 THE LAND WE LOVE. 

God blest them both in the holy place, 
A long, brief moment the rite was done ; 

On the human love fell the heavenly grace, 
Making two hearts forever one* 

Between two lengthening rows of smiles, 

One sweetly shy, one proud, elate, 
Two loves passed down the long, wide aisles. 

Will they ever forget the low, white gate ? 



THE LAND WE LOVE. 



ijSAND of the gentle and brave ! 
S|l? Our love is as wide as thy woe; 
^ It deepens beside every grave 

Where the heart of a hero lies low. 

Land of the sunniest skies ! 

Our love glows the more for thy gloom ; 
Our hearts by the saddest of ties, 

Cling closest to thee in thy doom. 



IN MEMORIAL. 83 

Land where the desolate weep 
In a sorrow no voice may console ! 

Our tears are but streams, making deep 
The ocean of love in our soul. 

Land where the victor's flag waves, 
Where only the dead are the free! 

Each link of the chain that enslaves, 
But binds us to them and to thee. 

Land where the Sign of the Cross 
Its shadow hath everwhere shed ! 

We measure our love by thy loss, 
Thy loss by the graves of our dead ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 



!|lliO! Heart of mine! the way is long— 
SSr 3 The night is dark — the place is far ; 
& Go ! kneel and pray, or chant a song, 

Beside two graves where Mary's star 
Shines o'er two children's hearts at rest, 
With Mary's medals on their breast. 



8i JN MEMORIAL. 

Go! Heart! those children loved you so, 
Their little lips prayed oft for you ! 

Put ah ! those necks are lying low 
Bound which you twined the badge of blue. 

Go to their graves, this Virgin's feast, 
With poet's song and prayer of priest, 

Go ! like a pilgrim to a shrine, 
For that is holy ground where sleep 

Children of Mary and of thine. 
Go! kneel, and pray and sing and weep; 

Last Summer how their faces smiled 
"When each was blessed as Mary's child. 



My heart hath gone ! I cannot sing ! 

Beside those children's grave, song dies; 
Hush! Poet! — Priest! Prayer hath a wing 

To pass the stars and reach the skies; 
Sweet children ! from the land of light 

Look down and bless my heart to-night 



BEVERIE. 



J||E laugh when our souls arc the saddest, 
^T&f We shroud all our griefs in a smile; 
■"• Our voices may warble their gladdest, 

And our souls mourn in anguish, the while. 



And our eyes wear a summer's bright glory, 
When winter is wailing beneath ; 

And we tell not the world the sad story 
Of the thorn hidden back of the wreath 

Ah! fast flow the moments of laughter, 
And bright as the brook to the sea; 

But ah ! the dark hours that come after 
Of moaning for you and for me. 

Yea, swift as the sunshine, and fleeting 
As birds, fly the moments of glee ! 

And we smile; and mayhap grief is sleeting 
Its ice upon you and on me. 

(83) 



86 REVEKIE. 

And the clouds of the tempest are shifting 
O'er the heart, tho' the face may be bright ; 

And the snows of woe's winter are drifting 
Our souls ; and each day hides a night. 

For ah ! when our souls are enjoying 

The mirth which our faces reveal, 
There is something — a something — alloying 

The sweetness of joy that we feel. 

Life's loveliest sky hides the thunder. 

Whose bolt in a moment may fall, 
And our path may be flowery; but under 

The flowers there are thorns for us all. 

Ah ! 'tis hard wlisn our beautiful dreamings, 
That flash down the valley of night, 

Wave their wing when the gloom hides their gleaming, 
And leave us, like eagles in flight; 

And fly far away unreturning, 

And leave us in terror and tears, 
While vain is the spirit's wild yearning 

That they may come back in the years. 



REVEKIE. 87 

Come back! did I say it? but never 

Do eagles come back to the cage : 
They have gone — they have gone — and forever 1 

Does youth come back ever to age ? 

No! a joy that has left us in sorrow 

Smiles never again on our way; 
But we meet in the farthest to-morrov/ 

The face of the grief of to-day. 

The brightness whose tremulous glimmer 

Has faded we cannot recall ; 
And the light that grows dimmer and dimmer — 

When gone — 'tis forever and all. 

Not a ray of it anywhere lingers, 
Not a gleam of it gilds the vast gloom ; 

Youth's roses perfume not the fingers 
Of age groping nigh to the tomb. 

For "the memory of joy is a sadness " — 

The dim twilight after the day; 
And the grave where we bury a gladness 

Sends a grief, like a ghost, on our way. 



88 I OFTEN WONDER WHY TIS SO. 

No day shall return that has faded, 
The dead come not back from the tomb ; 

The vale of each life must be shaded, 
That we may see best from the gloom 

The height of the home of our glory 
All radiant with splendors of light ; 

That we may read clearly life's story— 
"The dark is the dawn of the bright.' ' 



I OFTEN WONDER WHY 'TIS SO. 



lIOME find work where some find rest, 
^Sf And so the weary world goes on ; 
•^ I sometimes wonder which is best; 

The answer comes when life is gone. 

Some eyes sleep when some eyes wake, 
And so the dreary night-hours go; 

Some hearts beat where some hearts break ; 
I often wonder why 'tis so. 

Some wills faint where some wills fight, 
Some love the tent, and some the field, 

I often wonder who are right — 
The ones who strive, or those who yield ? 



I OFTEN WONDER WHY 'TIS SO. 89 

Some hands fold where other hands 

Are lifted bravely in the strife; 
And so thro' ages and thro' lands 

Move on the two extremes of life. 

Some feet halt where some feet tread, 

In tireless march, a thorny way; 
Some struggle on where some have fled ; 

Some seek when others shun the fray. 

Some swords rust where others clash, 
Some fall back where some move on, 

Some flags furl where others flash 
Until the battle has been won. 

Some sleep on while others keep 

The vigils of the true and brave : 
They will not rest till roses creep 

Around their name above a grave. 



A BLESSING. 



pM!E you near, or be you far! 

L§§li 

"Tff^Let my blessing, like a star, 
'• Shine upon you everywhere! 
And in each lone evening hour 
When the twilight folds the flower, 
I will fold thy name in prayer. 

In the dark and in the day, 
To my heart you know the way, 

Sorrow's pale hand keeps the key ; 
In your sorrow or your sin 
You may always enter in, 

I will keep a place for thee. 

If God's blessing pass away 
From your spirit; if you stray 

From His presence, do not wait. 
Come to my heart, for I keep, 
For the hearts that w r ail and weep, 

Ever opened wide, a gate. 



(00) 



A BLESSING. 91 

Iii your joys to others go, 

When your feet walk ways of woe 

Only then come back to mc; 
T will give you tear for tear, 
And our tears shall more endear 

Thee to me and me to thee. 

For I make my heart the home 
Of all hearts in grief that come 

Seeking refuge and a rest. 
Do not fear me, for you know, 
Be your footsteps e'er so low, 

I know yours, of all, the best. 

Once you came; and you brought sin; 
Did not my hand lead you in — 

Into God's Heart, thro' my own ? 
Did not my voice speak a w r ord 
You, for years, had never heard— * 

Mystic word in Mercy's tone ? 

And a graco fell on your brow, 
And I heard your murmured vow, 

When I whispered : " Go in p:ace," 
" Go in peace, and sin no more/' 
Did you not touch Mercy's shore, 
XDid not sin's wild tempest cease? 



92 july 9th, 1872. 

Go ! then : thou art good and pure. 
If thou e'er shouldst fall, be sure, 

Back to me thy footsteps trace ! 
In my heart for year and year, 
Be thou far away or near, 

I shall keep for thee a place. 

Yes ! I bless you — near or far— 
And my blessing, like a star, 

Shall shine on you everywhere ; 
And in many a holy hour, 
As the sunshine folds the flower, 

I will fold thy heart in prayer. 



JULY 9 TII > 1872. 



.jCjilETWEEN two pillared clouds of gold 

JemfliS 

^i&< The beautiful gates of evening swung — 

*» And far and wide, from flashing fold 

The half furled banners of light, that hung, 

O'er gre:n of wood and gray of wold 

And over the blue where the river rolled, 

The fading gleams of their glory flung. 



july 9th, 1872. 93 

The sky wore not a frown all day 
To mar the smile of the morning-tide, 

The soft- voiced winds sang joyous lay — 
You never would think they had ever sighed; 

The stream went on its sunlit way 

In ripples of laughter ; happy they 
As the hearts that met at Eiverside. 

Ko cloudlet in the sky serene! 

Not a silver speck in the golden hue ! 
But where the woods waved low and green, 

And seldom would let the sunlight through, 
Sweet shadows fell, and in their screen 
The faces of children might be seen, 

And the flash of ribbons of blue. 

It was a children's simple feast, 

Yet many were there whoso faces told 
How far they are from childhood's East 

Who have reached the evening of the old! 
And father — mother — sister — priest — 
They seemed all day like the very least 

Of the little children of the fold. 

The old forgot they were not young, 
The young forgot they would e'er be old, 

And all day long the trees among, 
Where'er their footsteps stayed or strolled, 



94: july 9th, 1872. 

Came wittiest word from tireless tongue, 
And the merriest peals of laughter rung 
Where the woods drooped low and the river rolled. 

No cloud upon the faces there, 
Not a sorrow came from its hiding place 

To cast the shadow of a care 

On the fair, sweet brows in that fairest place; 

For in the sky and in the air, 

And in their spirits, and everywhere, 
Joy rer ned in the fullness of her grace. 

The day was long, but ah ! too brief! 

Swift to the West bright-winged she fled; 
Too soon on ev'ry look and leaf 

The last rays flushed which her plumage shed 
Prom an evening cloud— was it a sign of grief? 
And the bright day passed — is there much relief 

That its dream dies not when its gleam is dead ? 

Great sky! thou art a prophet still! 

And by thy shadows and by thy rays 
We read the future if we will, 

And all the fates of our future ways ; 
To-morrows meet us in vale and hill, 
And under the trees, and by the rill, 

Thou givest the sign of our coming days. 



WAKE ME A SONG, 95 

That evening cloud was a sign, I ween- 

For the sister of that Summer day 
Shall come next year to the self-same scene; 

The winds will sing the self-same lay 
The self-same woods will wave as green, 
And Riverside, thy skies serene 
Shall robe thee again in a golden sheen ; 
Yet though thy shadows may weave a screen 
Where the children's faces may be seen, 
Thou ne'er shall be as thou hast been, 

For a fac3 they loved has passed away. 



WAKE ME A SONG. 



SUT of the silences wake me a song, 
Sf^ Beautiful, sad, and softy and low ; 
*• Let the loveliest music sound along, 

And wing each note with a wail of woe. 
Dim and drear 
As hope's last tear, 
Out of the silences wake me a hymn, 
Whose sounds are like shadows soft and dim. 



96 IN MEMOKIAM. 

Out of the stillness in your heart — 

A thousand songs are sleeping there — 
Wake me a song, thou child of art ! 
The song of a hope in a last despair, 
Dark and low, 
A chant of woe, 
Out of the stillness, tone by tone, 
Cold as a snow-flake, low as a moan. 

Out of the darkness flash me a song, 

Brightly dark and darkly bright ; 
Let it sweep as a lone star sweeps along 
The mystical shadows of the night. 
Sing it sweet, 
Where nothing is drear, or dark or dim, 
And earth-song soars into heavenly hymn. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

DAVID J. RYAN, C. S. A. 




If 



HOU art sleeping, brother, sleeping 

In thy lonely battle grave ; 
Shadows o'er the past are creeping, 
Death, the reaper, still is reaping, 



IN MEMORIAM. 97 

Years have swept, and years are sweeping 
Many a memory from my keeping, 
But I'm waiting still, and weeping 
For my beautiful and brave, 

Yf lien the battle songs were chanted, 
And war's stirring tocsin pealed, 

By those songs thy heart was haunted, 

And thy spirit, proud, undaunted, 

Clamored wildly — wildly panted; 
"Mother! let my wish be granted; 

I will ne'er be mocked and taunted 

That I fear to meet our vaunted 
Foemen on the bloody field, 

"They are thronging, mother! thronging, 
To a thousand fields of fame; 
Let me go — 'tis wrong and wronging 
God and thee to crush this longing; 
On the muster-roll of glory, 
In my country's future story, 
On the field of battle gory 

I must consecrate my name, 

"Mother ! gird my sword around me, 
Kiss thy soldier-boy < good-bye.' " 
In her arms she wildly wound thee, 



98 IN MEMOEIAM. 

To thy birth-land's cause she bound thee, 
With fond prayers and blessings crowned thee, 
And she sobbed: "When foes surround thee, 
If you fall, I'll know they found thee 
Where the bravest love to die." 

At the altar of their nation, 

Stood that mother and her son; 
He, the victim of oblation, 
Panting for his immolation ; 
She, in priestess' holy station, 
Weeping words of consecration, 
While God smiled his approbation, 
Blessed the boy's self-abnegation, 
Cheered the mother's desolation, 
When the sacrifice was done. 

Forth, like many a noble other, 

Went he, whispering soft and low : 
" Good-bye— pray for me, my mother; 
Sister! kiss me — farewell, brother;" 
And he strove his grief to smother. 
Forth, with footsteps firm and fearless, 
And his parting gaze was tearless, 
Though his heart was lone and cheerless, 
Thus from all he loved to go. 



IN MEMORIAM. 99 

Lo ! yon flag of freedom flashing 
In the sunny Southern sky : 

On, to death and glory dashing, 

On, where swords are clanging, clashing, 

On, where balls are crushing, crashing, 

On, 'mid perils dread, appalling, 

On, they're falling, falling, falling, 

On, they're growing fewer, fewer, 

On, their hearts beat all the truer, 
On, on, on, no fear, no falter, 
On, though round the battle-altar 

There were wounded victims moaning, 

There were dying soldiers groaning ; 

On, right on, death's danger braving, 

Warring where there their flag was waving, 

While Baptismal-blood was laving 
All that field of death and slaughter; 

On, still on; that bloody lava 
Made them braver and made them braver, 
On, with never a halt or waver, 
On in battle — bleeding — bounding, 
While the glorious shout swept sounding, 
"We will win the day or die! " 



1.00 IN MEMORIAM. 

And they won it; routed — riven — 

Keeled the foemen's proud array : 
They had struggled hard, and striven, 
Blood in torrents they had given, 
But their ranks, dispersed and driven, 
Fled, in sullenness, away. 

Many a heart was lonely lying 

That would never throb again ; 

Some were dead, and some were dying; 

Those were silent, these were sighing ; 

Thus to die alone, unattended, 

Unbewept and unbefriended, 
On that bloody battle-plain. 

When the twilight sadly, slowly 

Wrapped its mantle o'er them all, 
Thousands, thousands lying lowly, 
Hushed in silence deep and holy, 
There was one, his blood was flowing 
And his last of life was going, 
And his pulse faint, fainter beating 
Told his hours were few and fleeting; 
And his brow grew white and whiter, 
While his eyes grew strangely brighter; 



IN MEMORIAM. 101 

There he lay — like infant dreaming, 
With his sword beside him gleaming, 
For the hand in life that grasped it, 
True in death still fondly clasped it ; 
There his comrades found him lying 
'Mid the heaps of dead and dying, 
And the sternest bent down weeping 
O'er the lonely sleeper sleeping: 
'Twas the midnight; Stars shone round him, 
And they told us how they found him 
Where the bravest love to fall. 

Where the woods, like banners bending, 
Drooped in starlight and in gloom, 
There, when that sad night was ending, 
And the faint, far dawn was blending 
With the stars now fast descending ; 
There they mute and mournful bore him, 
With the stars and shadows o'er him, 
And they laid him down— so tender— 
And the next day's sun, in splendor, 
Flashed above my brother's tomb. 



WHAT? 

TO ETHEL, 



lllpT the golden gates of the visions 
^K I knelt me adown, one day, 
■^ But sudden my prayer was a silence, 
For I heard from the " Far away " 
The murmur of many voices 
And a silvery censer's sway, 

I bowed in awe, and I listened— 
The deeps of my soul were stirred. 

But deepest of all was the meaning 
Of the far-off music I heard, 

And yet it Wag stiller than silence, 
Its notes were the " Dream of a Word.'* 

A word that is whispered in heaven 

But cannot be heard below, 
It liveg on the lips of the angels 

Whefe'ef their pure wings glow, 
Yet duly the "Dream of its Echo" 

Ever teaches thig valley of woe. 

(102> 



the master's voice. 103 

Bat I know the word and its meaning; 

I reached to its height that day, 
When prayer sank into a silence 

And my heart wa3 so far away; 
But I may not murmur the music, 

Nor the word may my lips yet say. 

But some day far in the future, 
And up from the dust of the dead, 

And out of my lips when spoechless, 
The mystical word shall be said, 

'Twill come to thee, still as a spirit, 
When the soul of the bard has fled. 



THE MASTERS VOICE. 



«i|BHE waves were weary, and they went to sleep; 
SSjR 9 The winds were hushed ; 

& The starlight flushed 

The farrowed face of all the mighty deep. 

The billows yester eve so dark and wild. 

Wore strangely now 

A calm upon their brow, 
Like that which re3ts upon a cradled child. 



104: tiie master's voice. 

The sky was bright, and every single star, 

With gleaming face, 

Was in its place, 
And looked upon the sea— so fair and far. 

And all was still — still as a temple dim, 

When low and faint, 

As murmurs plaint, 
Dies the last note of the Vesper hymn. 

A bark slept on the sea, and in the bark 

Slept Mary's Son — 

The only One 
Whose face is light! where all, all else, is dark. 

His brow was heavenward turned, His face was fair; 

He dreamed of me 

On that still sea — 
The stars He made were gleaming through His hair. 

And, lo! a moan moved o'er the mighty deep; 

The sky grew dark: 

The little bark 
Felt all the waves awaking from their sleep. 



THE MASTER'S VOICE. 105 

The winds wailed wild, and wilder billows beat; 

The bark w T as tossed : 

Shall all be lost? 
But Mary's Son slept on, serene and sweet. 

The tempest raged in all its mighty wrath, 

The winds howled on, 

All hope seemed gone, 
And darker waves surged round the bark's lone path. 

The sleeper woke! He gazed upon the deep; 

He whispered : " Peace ! 

Winds — wild waves, cease ! 
Be still ! " The tempest fled — the ocean fell asleep. 

And, ah ! when human hearts by storms are tossed, 

When life's lone bark 

Drifts through the dark, 
And 'mid the wildest waves where all seems lost, 

He now, as then, with words of power and peace, 

Murmurs : " Stormy deep, 

Be still— still— and sleep !" 
And, lo! a great calm comes — the tempest's perils cease. 



A " THOTJGBT-FLOWER." 



HKILENTLY— shadowly— some lives go, 

IS 

T& 9 And the sound of their voices is all unheard, 

-"• Or, if heard at all, 'tis as faint as the flow 

Of beautiful waves which no storm hath stirred. 

Deep lives these, 

As the pearl-strewn seas. 

Softly and noiselessly some feet tread 

Lone ways on earth, without leaving a mark} 
They move 'mid the living, they pass to the dead, 
As still as the gleam of a star thro' the dark. 
Sweet lives those 
In their strange repose. 

Calmly and lowly some hearts beat, 

And none may know that they beat at all; 
They muffle their music whenever they meet 
A few in a hut or a crowd in a hall. 
Great hearts those — 
God only knows ! 

(108) 



A DEATH* 107 

Soundlessly— shadowly — such move on, 
Dim as the dream of a child asleep ; 
And no one knoweth 'till they are gone 
How lofty their souls — their hearts how deep; 
Bright souls these— 
God only sees. 

Lonely and hiddenly in the world— 

Tho' in the world 'tis their lot to stay — 
The tremulous wings of their hearts are furled 
Until they fly from the world away, 
And find their rest 
On "Our Father's" breast, 
Where earth's unknown shall be known tha best, 
And the hidden hearts shall be brightest blest 



A DEATH. 



^ 



IRUSHED with a burden of woe, 

T Wrecked in the tempest of sin : 
Death came, and two lips murmured low, 
"Ah ! once I was white as the snow, 
In the happy and pure long ago ; 
But they say God is sweet — is it so ? 

Will He let a poor wayward one in — 



108 A DEATH, 

u In where the innocent are ? 

Ah! justice stands guard at the gate; 

Does it mock at a poor sinner's fate? 
Alas ! I have fallen so far ! 

Oh ! God ! Oh ! my God ! 'Tis too late ! 
I have fallen as falls a lost star : 

"The sky does not miss the gone gleam, 
But my heart, like the lost star, can dream 
Of the sky it has fall'n from. Nay ! 
I have wandered too far — far away, 
Oh! would that my mother were here; 
Is God like a mother ? Has He 
Any love for a sinner like me ? " 

Her face wore the wildness of woe — 

Her words, the wild tones of despair ; 
Ah ! how can a heart sink so low ? 
How a face that was once bright and so fair, 
Can be furrowed and darkened with care ? 
Wild rushed the hot tears from her eyes, 
From her lips rushed the wildest of sighs, 
Her poor heart was broken ; but then 
Her God was far gentler than men. 



A DEATH. 109 

A voice whispered low at lier side, 

u Child ! God is more gentle than m:n, 
He watches by passion's dark tide, 

He sees a wreck drifting— and then 
He beckons with hand and with voice, 

And He sees the poor wreck floating in 
To the haven on Mercy's bright shore, 
And He whispers the whisper of yore : 
The angels of heaven rejoice 

O'er the sinner repenting of sin.' " 



And a silence came down for awhile, 
And her lips they were moving in prayer, 

And her face it wore just such a smile 
As, perhaps, it was oft wont to wear, 

Ere the heart of the girl knew a guile, 

Ere the soul of the girl knew the wile, 
That had led hor to passion's despair, 

Death's shadows crept over her face, 
And softened the hard marks of care ; 

Repentance had won a last grace, 
And the Angel of Mercy stood there. 



THE EOSABY OF MY TEARS. 



^OME reckon their age by years, 
*t§^ Some measure their life by art; 
^ But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, 
And their lives by the moans of their heart. 

The dials of earth may show 
The length, not the depth, of years, 

Few or many they come, few or many they go, 
But time is best measured by tears. 



Ah ! not by the silver gray 

That creeps thro' the sunny hair, 
And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, 

And not by the furrows the fingers of care 

On forehead and face have made, 
Not so do we count our years ; 

Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade 
Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. 

(110 



THE EOSAEY OF MY TEARS. Ill 

For the young are oft-times old, 

Though their brows be bright and fair; 
While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold — 

O'er them the spring— but winter is there. 

And the old are oft-times young, 
When their hair is thin and white ; 

And they sing in age, as in youth they sung, 
And they laugh, for their cross was light. 

But, bead by bead, I tell 

The rosary of my years ; 
From a cross to a cross they lead ; 'tis well, 

And they're blest with a blessing of tears. 

Better a day of strife 

Than a century of sleep; 
Give me instead of a long stream of life 

The tempests and tears of the deep. 

A thousand joys may foam 

On the billows of all the years ; 
But never the foam brings the lone back home^ 

It reaches the haven through tears. 



DEATH. 



1UT of the shadows of sadness, 
e 7&*Into the sunshine of gladness, 

^ Into the light of the blest; 
Out of a land very dreary, 
Out of the world very weary, 
Into the rapture of rest. 

Out of to-day's sin and sorrow, 
Into a blissful to-morrow, 

Into a day without gloom; 
Out of a land filled with sighing, 
Land of the dead and the dying, 

Into a land without tomb. 

Out of a life of commotion, 
Tempest-swept oft as the ocean, 

Dark with the wrecks drifting o'er, 
Into a land calm and quiet, 
Never a storm cometh nigh it, 

Never a wreck on its shore. 

(112) 



DEATH. 113 

Oat of a land in whose bowers 
Perish and fade all the flowers ; 

Out of the land of decay, 
Into the Eden where fairest 
Of flowerlets, and sweetest and rarest, 

Never shall wither away. 

Out of the world of the wailing 
Thronged with the anguished and ailing; 

Out of the world of the sad. 
Into the world that rejoices — 
"World of bright visions and voices— 

Into the world of the glad. 

Out of a life ever mournful, 
Out of a land very lornful, 

Where in bleak exile we roam, 
Into a joy-land above us, 
Where there's a Father to love us — 

Into our home — "Sweet Home." 



WHAT AILS TUE WORLD? 



gHAT ails the world?" the poet cried; 
^t^ 9 " And why does death walk everywhere ? 
•"■ And why do tears fall anywhere ? 

And skies have clouds, and souls have care ? " 
Thus the poet sang, and sighed* 



For he would fain have all things glad, 
All lives happy, all hearts bright ; 
Not a day would end in night, 
Not a wrong would vex a right — 

And so he sang — and he was sad. 

Thro 1 his very grandest rhymes 
Moved a mournful monotone — 
Like a shadow eastward thrown 
Prom a sunset—like a moan 

Tangled in a joy*bell'$ chimes. 



WHAT AILS THE WOULD ? 115 

" What ails the world ? " he sang and asked— 
And asked and sang — but all in vain ; 
No answer came to any strain, 
And no reply to his refrain — 
The mystery moved 'round him masked. 



"What ails the world?" An echo came — 

"Ails the world ?" The minstrel bands, 
With famous or forgotten hands, 
Lift up their lyres in all the lands, 
And chant alike, and ask the same 

Prom him whose soul first soared in song, 
A thousand, thousand years away, 
To him who sang but yesterday, 
In dying or in deathless lay — 
"What ails the world?" comes from the throng. 



They fain would sing the world to rest; 
And so they chant in countless keys, 
As many as the waves of seas, 
And as the breathings of the breeze, 

Yet even when they sing their best — 



116 WHAT AILS THE WORLD? 

When o'er the list'ning world there floats 
Such melody as 'raptures men— 
When all look up entranced- and when 
The song of fame floats forth, e'en then 

A discord creepeth through the notes, 

Their sweetest harps have broken strings, 
Their grandest accords have their jars, 
Like shadows on the light of stars, 
And somehow, something ever mars 

The songs the greatest minstrel sings. 

And so each song is incomplete, 

And not a rhyme can ever round 
Into the chords of perfect sound 
The tones of thought that e'er surround 

The ways walked by the poet's feet. 

u What ails the world ? " he sings and sighs ; 
No answer cometh to his cry. 
He asks the earth and asks the sky — 
The echoes of his song pass by 
Unanswered— and the poet dies* 



A THOVGHT. 

•]|&KH£EE never was a valley without a faded 
L ^: flower, 

^ There never was a heaven without some little 
cloud ; 
The face of day may flash with light in any morning 
hour, 
But evening socn shall come with her shadow-woven 
shroud. 

There never was a river without its mists of gray, 
There never was a forest without its fallen leaf; 
And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our 
way, 
When lo ! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the 
face of grief. 

There never was a sea-shore without its drifting wreck, 
There never was an ocean without its moaning wave; 
And the golden gleams of glory the Summar sky that 
fleck, 
Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azu re- 
mantled grave. 

(117) 



118 A THOUGHT. 

There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear, 

Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide ; 
Hope's brightest robe3 are broidered with the sable 
fringe of fear, 
And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on either 
side. 

The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly 
plain, 
And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the 
mountain's head, 
And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of 
some pain, 
And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd 
tear is shed. 

For no eyes have there been ever without a weary 
tear, 
x\nd those lips cannot be human which have never 
heaved a sigh ; 
For without the dreary Winter there has never been a 
year, 
And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest 
Summer sky. 



A THOUGHT. 119 

The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means tho 
grave ; 
The mother's song scai*ce hides the Do profundis of 
the priest ; 
You may cull the fairest roses any May day ever gave, 
But they wither while you wear them ere the ending 
of your feast. 

So this dreary life is passing — and we move amid its 
maze, 
And we grope along together, half in darkness, half 
in light; 
And our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of 
our ways, 
Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly 
bright. 

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a 
guide, 
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the mean- 
ing and the key; 
And a cross gleams o'er our pathway, on it hangs the 
Crucified, 
And He answers all our yearnings by the whisper, 
"Follow Me." 



120 IN KOME. 

Life is a burden; bear it; 

Life is a duty; dare it; 

Life is a thorn-crown ; wear it, 

Though it break your heart in twain; 

Though the burden crush you down; 
Close your lips, and hide your pain, 
First the cross, and then, the crown. 



IF BO ME. 



|||pT last, the dream of youth 
i ^^ Stands fair and bright before me, 
«H> The sunshine of the home of truth 
Falls tremulously o'er me. 

And tower, and spire, and lofty dome 
In brightest skies are gleaming; 

Walk I, to-day, the ways of Rome, 
Or am I only dreaming ? 

No, 'tis no dream ; my very eyes 

Gaze on the hill-tops seven; 
Where crosses rice and kiss the skies, 

And grandly point to Heaven. 



IN ROME, 121 

Grey ruins loom on ev'ry side, 

Each stone an age's story ; 
They seem the very ghosts of pride 

That watch the grave of glory. 

There senates sat, whose sceptre sought 

An empire without limit ; 
Their grandeur dreamed its dream, and thought 

That death would never dim it. 

There rulers reigned ; yon heap of stones 

Was once their gorgeous palace; 
Beside them now, on altar thrones. 

The priests lift up the chalice. 

There legions marched with bucklers bright, 

And lances lifted o'er them ; 
While flags, like eagles plumed for flight, 

Unfurled their wings before them. 

There poets sang, whose deathless name 

Is linked to deathless verses ; 
There heroes hushed with shouts of fame 

Their trampled victim's curses. 



122 IN ROME. 

There marched the warriors back to home, 
Beneath yon crumbling portal, 

And placed upon the brow of Rome 
The proud crown of immortal. 

There soldiers stood with armor on, 
In steel-clad ranks and serried, 

The while their red swords flashed upon 
The slaves whose rights they buried. 

Here Pagan pride, with sceptre, stood, 
And fame would not forsake it, 

Until a simple cross of wood 
Came from the East to break it. 

That Rome is dead— here is the grave- 
Dead glory rises never ; 

And countless crosses o'er it wave, 
And will wave on forever, 

Beyond the Tiber gleams a dome 

Above the hill-tops seven ; 
It arches o'er the world from Rome, 

And leads the world to Heaven. 
Dec. 6th, 1872. 



AFTER SICKNESS, 



m NEARLY died, I almost touched the door 
-T^That swings between forever and no-more; 
■"» I think I heard the awful hinges grate, 
Hour after hour, while I did weary wait 
Death's coming ; but alas! 'twas all in rain: 
The door half-opened and then closed again* 

What were my thoughts ? I had but one regret- 
That I was doomed to live and linger yet 
In this dark valley where the stream of tears 
Flows, and, in flowing, deepens thro' the years. 
My lips spake not—my eyes were dull and dim, 
But thro' my heart there moved a soundless hymn— 
A triumph-song of many chords and keys, 
Transcending language— as the Summer breeze, 
Which, through the forest mystically floats, 
Transcends the reach of mortal music's notes. 
A song of victory — a chant of bliss: 
Wedded to words, it might have been like this: 

(123) 



124 AFTER SICKNESS. 

" Come, death ! but I am fearless, 

I shrink not from your frown ; 
The eyes }'Ou close are tearless; 

Haste! strike this frail form down. 
Come ! there is no dissembling 

In this last, solemn hour, 
But you'll find my heart untrembling 

Before your awful power. 
My lips grow pale and paler, 

My eyes are strangely dim, 
I wail not as a wailer, 

I sing a victor's hymn. 
My limbs grow cold and colder, 

My room is all in gloom ; 
Bold death! — but I am bolder— 

Come ! lead me to my tomb ! 
'Tis cold and damp and dreary, 

'Tis still and lone and deep; 
Haste, death! my eyes are weary, 

I want to fall asleep. 

" Strike quick! Why dost thou tarry? 
Of time why such a loss ? 
Does fear the sign I carry ? 
'Tis but a simple cross. 



OLD TREE3. 125 

" Thou will not strike ? Then hear me : 
Come ! strike in any hour, 
My heart shall never fear thee 
Nor flinch before thy power. 
I'll meet thee — time's dread lictor— 

And my wasted lips shall sing : 
1 Dread death 1 I am the victor ! 

Strong death ! where is thy sting ? ' " 
Milan, January, 1873. 



OLD TREES. 



KwLD trees ! old trees ! in your mystic gloom 
There's many a warrior laid, 



■^ And many a nameless and lonely tomb 

Is sheltered beneath your shade. 

Old trees ! old trees ! without pomp or prayer 

We buried the brave and the true, 
We fired a volley and left them there 

To rSst, old trees, with you. 

Old trees, old trees, keep watch and ward 

Over each grass-grown bed ; 
'Tis a glory, old trees, to stand as guard 

Over our Southern dead ; 



126 AFTER SEEING riUS IX. 

Old trees, old trees, we shall pass away 
Like the leaves you yearly shed, 

But ye! lone sentinels, still must stay, 
Old trees, to guard " our dead." 



AFTER SEEING PIUS IX. 



w& 



*4 



|3E| SAW his face to-day; he looks a chief 
^H^ 9 Who fears nor human rage, nor human guile ; 
•^ Upon his cheeks the twilight of a grief, 
But in that grief the starlight of a smile. 
Deep, gentle eyes, with drooping lids that tell 
They are the homes where tears of sorrow dwell J 
A low voice— -strangely sweet — whose very tone 
Tells how these lips speak oft with God alone* 
I kissed his hand, I fain would kiss his feet} 
" JSTo, no," he said } and then, in accents sweet. 
His Messing fell upon my bended head. 
He bade me rise ; d, few more Words he said, 
Then took me by the hand — the while he smiled— 
And, going, whisparedi "Pray for me, my child." 



SENTINEL SONGS. 






^SiHEN falls the soldier brave, 
& j&s Dead at the feet of wrong, 
*• The poet sings and guards his grave 
With sentinels of song. 

Songs, march ! he gives command, 
Keep faithful watch and true; 

The living and dead of the conquered land 
Have now no guards save you* 

Gray ballads ! mark ye well ! 

Thrice holy is your trust ! 
Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell; 

Eest arms! and guard their dust. 

List! Songs! your watch is long, 
The soldiers' guard was brief; 

Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, 
Ye may not seek relief. 

(137) 



128 SENTINEL SONGS. 

Go ! wearing the gray of grief ! 

Go ! watch o'er the dead in gray ! 
Go! guard the private and guard the chief, 

And sentinel their clay ! 

And the songs, in stately rhyme 
And with softly-sounding tread, 

Go forth, to watch for a time — a time- 
Where sleep the Deathless Dead. 

And the songs, like funeral dirge, 

In music soft and low, 
Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge 

From hearts that are homes of woe. 

What tho' no sculptured shaft 

Immortalize each brave ? 
What tho' no monument epitaphed 

Be built above each grave ? 

When marble wears away 

And monuments are dust, 
The songs that guard our soldiers' clay 

Will still fulfill their trust. 



SEN'IINEL SONGS. 129 

With lifted head and steady tread, 

Like stars that guard the skies, 
Go watch each bed where rest the dead, 

Brave songs, with sleepless eyes. 



When falls the cause of Eight, 

The poet grasps his pen, 
And in gleaming letters of living light 

Transmits the truth to men. 

Go ! Songs ! he says who sings ; 

Go ! tell the world this tale ; 
Bear it afar on your tireless wings: 

The Eight will yet prevail. 

Songs ! sound like the thunder's breath ! 

Boom o'er the world and say : 
Brave men may die — Eight has no death ! 

Truth never shall pass away! 

Go! sing thro' a nations sighs! 

Go ! sob thro' a people's tears ! 
Sweep the horizons of all the skies, 

And throb through a thousand years ! 

***** X! 



130 SENTINEL SONGS. 

And the songs, with brave, sad face, 

Go proudly down their way, 
Wailing the loss of a conquered race 

And waiting an Easter-day. 

Away! away! like the birds, 
They soar in their flight sublime; 

And the waving wings of the poet's words 
Flash down to the end of time. 

When the flag of justice fails, 
Ere its folds have yet been furled, 

The poet waves its folds in wails 
That flutter o'er the world. 

Songs, march ! and in rank by rank 

The low, wild verses go, 
To watch the graves where the grass is dank, 

And the martyrs sleep below. 

Songs! halt where there is no name ! 

Songs ! stay where there is no stone ! 
And wait till you hear the feet of Fame 

Coming to where ye moan. 



SENTINEL SONGS. 131 

And the songs, with lips that mourn, 
And with hearts that break in twain 

At the beck of the bard— a hope forlorn- 
Watch the plain where sleep the slain. 



When the warrior's sword is lowered 
Ere its stainless sheen grows dim, 

The bard flings forth its dying gleam 
On the wings of a deathless hymn. 

Songs ! fly far o'er the world 

And adown to the end of time : 
Let the sword still flash, tho' its flag be furled, 

Thro' the sheen of the poet's rhyme. 

Songs ! fly as the eagles fly ! 

The bard unbars the cage ; 
Go soar away, and afar and high 

Wave your wings o'er every age. 

Shriek shrilly o'er each day, 

As future-ward ye fly, 
That the men were right who wore the gray, 

And Right can never die. 




132 BENTINEL BONGS, 

And tho songs, with waving wing, 

Fly far, float far away 
From the ages' crests; o'er the world they fling 

The shade of the stainless gray. 

Might! sing your triumph-songs! 

Each song but sounds a shame ; 
Go down the world, in loud-voiced throngs, 

To win, from the future, fame. 

Our ballads, born of tear,?, 

Will track you on your way, 
And win the hearts of the future years 

For the men who wore the gray. 

And so — say what you will — 

In the heart of God's own laws 
I have a faith, and my heart believes still 

In the triumph of our cause. 

Such hope may all be vain, 

And futile be such trust; 
But the weary eyes that weep the slain 

And watch above such dust 



SENTINEL SONGO. 133 

They cannot help but lift 

Their visions to the skies ; 
They watch the clouds but wait the rift 

Through which their hope shall rise, 

The victor wields the sword : 

Its blade may broken be 
By a thought that sleeps in a deathless word, 

To wake in the years to be. 

We wait a grand-voiced bard, 

Who, when he sings, will send 
Immortal songs' "Imperial Guard" 

The Lost Cause to defend. 

He has not come ; he will. 

But, when he chants, his song 
Will stir the world to its depths and thrill 

The earth with its tale of wrong. 

The fallen cause still waits — 

Its bard has not come yet. 
His song through one of to-morrow's gate3 

Shall shine, but never set. 



134 8ENTINEI, SOtfGS, 

But when lie comes he'll sweep 
A harp with tears all stringed, 

And the very notes he strikes will weep 
As they come from his hand woe-winged. 

Ah ! grand shall be his strain, 
And his songs shall fill all climes, 

And the rebels shall rise and march again 
Down the lines of his glorious rhymes. 

And through his verse shall gleam 
The swords that flashed in vain, 

And the men who wore the gray shall seem 
To be marshaling again. 

But hush ! between his words 

Peer faces sad and pale, 
And you hear the sound of broken chords 

Beat through the poet's wail. 

Through his verse the orphans cry— 

The terrible undertone — 
And the father's curse and the mother's sigh, 

And the desolate young wife's moan. 



v/ 



SENTINEL SONGS. 135 

But harps are in every land 

That await a voice that sings, 
And a master-hand — but the humblest hand 

May gently touch its string3. 

I sing with a voice too low 

To be heard beyond to-day, 
In minor keys of my people's woe, 

But my songs pass away. 

To-morrow hears them not— 

To-morrow belongs to fame — 
My songs, like the birds', will be forgot, 

And forgotten shall be my name. 



And yet who knows ? Betimes 

The grandest songs depart, 
While the gentle, humble and low-toned rhymes 

Will echo from heart to heart. 

But oh ! if in song or speech, 

In major or minor key, 
My voice could over the ages reach, 

I would whisper the name of Lee. 



136 SENTINEL SCNGS. 

In the niglit of our defeat 

Star, after star had gone, 
But the way was bright to our soldiers' feet 

Where the star of Lee led on. 

But sudden there came a cloud, 

Out rung a nation's knell; 
Our cause was wrapped in its winding shroud, 

All fell when the great Lee fell. 

From his men, with scarce a word, 
Silence when great hearts part! 

But we know he sheathed his stainless sword 
In the wound of a broken heart. 

He fled from Fame, but Fame 

Sought him in his retreat, 
Demanding for the world one name 

Made deathless by defeat. 

Nay! Fame! success is best! 

All lost! and nothing won: 
North, keep the clouds that flush the West, 

We have the sinking sun. 



SENTINEL SONGS. 137 

All lost ! but by the graves 

Where martyred heroes rest, 
He wins the most who honor saves — 

Success is not the test. 

All lost ! a nation weeps ; 

By all the tears that fall, 
He loses naught who conscience keeps, 

Lee's honor saves us all. 

All lost ! but e'en defeat 

Hath triumphs of her own, 
"Wrong's paean hath no note so sweet 

As trampled R'ght's proud moan. 

The world shall yet decide, 

In truth's clear, far-off light, 
That the soldiers who wore the gray, and died 

With Lee, were in the right. 

And men. by time made wise, 

Shall in the future see 
No name hath risen, or ever shall rise, 

Like the name of Robert Lee. 



138 SENTINEL SONGS. 

Ah me ! my words are week, 

This task surpasses me ; 
Dead soldiers! rise from your graves and speak, 

And tell how you loved Lee, 

The banner you bore is furled, 

And the gray is faded, too ! 
But in all the colors that deck the world 

Your gray blends not with blue. 

The colors are far apart, 

Graves sever them in twain ; 
The Northern heart and the Southern heart 

May beat in peace again, 

But still till time's last day, 

Whatever lips may plight, 
The blue is blue* but gray is gray. 

Wrong never accords with Eight* 

Go ! Glory, and forever guard 
Our chieftain's hallowed dust; 

And Hotior! keep eternal ward! 
And Fame ! be this thy trust! 



SENTINEL SONGS. 139 

Go ! with your bright emblazoned scroll 

And tell the years to be, 
The first of names that flash your roll 

Is ours — great Robert Lee. 

Lee wore the gray! since then 

'Tis Eight's and Honor's hue! 
He honored it, that man of men, 

And wrapped it round the true. 

^Dead! but his spirit breathes! 
Dead! but his heart is ours! 
Dead! but his sunny and sad land wreathes 
His crown with tears for flowers. 

A statue for his tomb ! 

Mould it of marble white! 
For -wrong* a spectre of death and doom ; 

An angel of hope for Eight. 

y 

Eilt Lee has a thousand graves 

In a thousand hearts I ween ; 
And tear-drops fall from our eyes in waves 

That will keep his memory green. 



L40 FRAGMENTS. FROM AN ERIC POEM. 

All ! Muse, you dare not claim 

A nobler man than lie, 
Nor nobler man hath less of blame, 
Nor blameless man hath purer name, 
Nor purer name hath grander fame, 

Nor fame — another Lee. 



FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEZI. 



A MYSTERY. 



fel 



|||i| IS face was sad ; some shadow must have hung 
't^ Above his soul ; its folds, now falling dark, 
* * Now almost bright ; but dark or not so dark, 

Like cloud upon a mount — 'twas always there — 

A shadow; and his face was always sad. 

His eyes were changeful; for the gloom of gray 
Within them met and blended with the blue, 
And when they gazed they seemed almost to dream; 
They looked b?yond you into far-away, 
And often drooped; his face was always sad. 



FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 141 

His eyes were deep ; I often saw them dim, 

As if the edges of a cloud of tears 

Had gathered there, and only left a mist 

That made them moist and kept them ever moist. 

He never wept; his face was always sad. 

I mean, not many saw him ever weep, 
And yet he seemed as one who often wept, 
Or always, tears that were too proud to flow 
In outer streams, but shrunk within and froze— 
Froze clown into himself; his face was sad. 

And yet sometimes he smiled ; a sudden smile, 
As if some far-gone joy came back again, 
Surprised his heart, and flashed across his face 
A moment; like a light through rifts in clouds, 
Which falls upon an unforgotten grave ; 
He rarely laughed; his face was ever sad. 

And when he spoke his words were sad as wails, 

And strange as stories of an unknown land, 

And full of meanings as the sea of moans. 

At times he was so still that silence seemed 

To sentinel his lips; and not a word 

Would leave his heart; his face was strangely sad. 



142 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 

Bat then at times his speech flowed like a stream, 
A deep and dreamy stream through lonely dells 
Of lofty mountain-thoughts, and o'er its waves 
Hung mysteries of gloom ; and in its flow 
It rippled on lone shores fair-fringed with flowers, 
And deepened as it flowed; his face was sad. 

He had his moods of silence and of speech. 

I asked him once the reason, and he said: 

" When I speak much, my words are only words, 

When I speak least, my words are more than words, 

When I speak not, I then reveal myself! " 

It was his way of saying things — he spoke 

In quaintest riddles ; and his face was sad. 

And, when he wished, he wove around his words 
A nameless spell, that marvelously thrilled 
The dullest ear. 'Twas strange that he so cold 
Could warm the coldest heart; that he so hard 
Could soften hardest soul; that he so still 
Could rouse the stillest mind; his face was sad. 

He spoke of death as if it were a toy 

For thought to play with ; and of life he spoke 

As of a toy not worth the play of thought; 






FRAGMENTS FROAl AN Ef> 10 POEM, 143 

And of this world he spake as captives speak 
Of prisons where they pine; he spake of men 
As one who found pure gold in each of them, 
He spake of women just as if he dreamed 
About his mother; and he spoke of God 
As if he walked with Him and knew His heart— 
But he was weary; and his face was sad. 

He had a weary way in all he did, 
As if he dragged a chain, or bore a crocs ; 
And yet the weary went to him for rest. 
His heart seemed scarce to know an earthly joy, 
And yet the joyless were rejoiced by him. 
He seemed to have two selves— his outer self 
Was free to any passer-by, and kind to all, 
And gentle as a child's ; that outer self 
Kept open all its gates, that whoso wished 
Might enter them and find therein a place ; 
And many entered; but his face was sad. 

The inner self he guarded from approach ; 

He kept it sealed and sacred as a shrine; 

He guarded it with silence and reserve; 

Its gates were locked and watched, and none might pass 

Beyond the portals; and his face was sad. 



144 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 

But whoso entered there — and few were they— 

So very few — so very, very few, 

They never did forget ; they said : " How strange ! " 

Tliey murmured still: "How strange! how strangely 

strange ! " 
They went their ways but wore a lifted look, 
And higher meanings came to common words, 
And lowly thoughts took on the grandest tones ; 
And, near or far, they never did forget 
The "Shadow and the Shrine; " his face was sad. 

He was nor young nor old — yet he was both ; 
Nor both by turns, but always both at once ; 
For youth and age commingled in his ways, 
His words, his feelings, and his thoughts and acts. 
At times the "old man " tottered in his thoughts, 
The child played thro' his words; his face was sad, 

I one day asked his age ; he smiled and said : 

"The rose that sleeps upon yon valley's breast, 

Just born to-day, is not as young as I; 

The moss-robed oak of twice a thousand storms— 

An acorn cradled age3 long ago — 

Is old, in sooth, but not as old as I." 

It was his way— he always answered thus, 

But when he did, his face was very sad. 



FRAGMENTS FEOK AN EPIC rOEM. 145 

* * >;< # :;* # 

6PIUIT SONG, 

Tlioii wert once the purest wave 

Where the tempests roar; 
Thou art now a golden wave 

On the golden shore— 

Ever— over— evermore ! 

Thou wert onoe the bluest wave 

Shadows e'er hung o'er; 
Thou art now the brightest wave 

On the brightest shore — 
Ever — ever—evermore ! 

Thou wert once the gentlest wave 

Ocean ever bore ; 
Thou art now the fairest wave 

On tho fairest shore- 
Ever— ever— evermore ! 

Whiter foam than thine, oh ! wave, 

Wavelet never wore, 
Stainless wave; and now you lave 

The far and stormless shore — 
Ever — ever — evermore ! 



146 FRAGMENTS FKOM AN EPIC POEM. 

Who bade thee go, oh ! bluest wave, 
Beyond the tempest's roar ? 

Who bade thee flow, oh! fairest wave, 
Unto the golden shore, 

Ever — ever— evermore ? 



Who waved a hand, oh ! purest wave ? 

A hand that blessings bore ; 
And wafted thee, oh! whitest wave, 

Unto the fairest shore, 

Ever — ever — evermore ? 

Who winged thy way, oh! holy wave, 

In days and days of yore ? 
And wept the words : " Oh ! winsome wave, 

This earth is not thy shore ! " 
Ever — ever—evermore ? 



Who gave thee strength, oh ! snowy wave — 
The strength a great soul wore — 

And said : " Float up to God ! my wave, 
His heart shall be thy shore ! " 
Ever — ever — evermore ? 



FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 147 

Who said to thee, oh ! poor, weak wave, 

" Thy wail shall soon be o'er, 
Float on to God, and leave me, wave, 

Upon this rugged shore ! 
Ever — ever— evermore ? 

And thou hast reached His feet ! Glad wave, 

Dost dream of days of yore ? 
Dost yearn that we shall meet* pure wave, 

Upon the golden shore, 
Ever— ever— evermore ? 

Thou sleepest in the calm, calm wave, 

Beyond the wild storm's roar! 
I watch amid the storm, bright wave, 

Like rock upon the shore; 
Ever — ever — evermore I 

Sing at the feet of God, white wave, 

Song sweet as one of yore ! 
I would not bring thee back, heart- wave, 

To break upon this shore, 
Ever— ever — evermore ! 



148 FRAGMEX1S FROM AN EPIC TOEM. 

"No, no," he gently spoke: "You know me not; 

My mind is like a temple, dim, va3t, lone ; 

Just like a temple when the priest is gone, 

And all the hymns that rolled along the vaults 

Are buried deep in silenc?; when the lights 

That flashed on altars died away in dark, 

And when the flowers, with all their perfumed breath 

And beauteous bloom, lie withered on the shrine. 

My mind is like a temple, solemn, still, 

Untenanted save by the ghosts of gloom 

Which seem to linger in the holy place — 

The shadows of the sinners who passed there, 

And wept, and spirit-shriven left upon 

The marble floor memorials of their tears.* 1 

And while he spake, his words sank low and low, 
Until they hid themselves in some still depth 
He would not open ; and his face was sad. 

When he spoke thus, his very gentleness 

Passed slowly from him, and his look so mild 

Grew marble cold ; a pallor as of death 

Whitened his lips, and clouds rose to his eyes, 

Dry, rainless clouds, where lightnings seemed to sleep. 






FRAGMENTS FEOM AN EriC POEM. 14:9 

His words, as tender as a rose's smile, 
Slow-hardened into thorns, but seemed to sting 
Himself the most; his brow, at such times, bent 
Most lowly down, and wore such look of pain 
As though it bore an unseen crown of thorns* 
Who knows ? perhaps it did ! 

But he would pass 
His hand upon his brow, or touch his eyes, 
And then the olden gentleness, like light 
Which seems transfigured by the touch of dark, 
Would tremble on his face, and he would look 
More gentle then than ever, and his tone 
Would sweeten, like the winds when storms have passed. 

I saw him, one day, thus most deeply moved 
And darkened ; ah ! his face was like a tomb 
That hid the dust of dead and buried smiles, 
But, suddenly, his face flashed like a throne, 
And all the smiles arose as from the dead, 
And wore the glory of an Easter morn ; 
And passed beneath the sceptre of a hops 
Which came from some far region of his heart, 
Came Up into his eyes, and reigned a queen* 
I marveled much ; he answered to my look 
With all his own, and wafted me these words t 



150 FRAGMENTS FROI.I AN EPIC TOEM. 

" There are transitions in the lives of all. 
There are transeendant moments when we stand 
In Thabor's glory with the chosen three, 
And w r eak with very strength of human love 
We fain would build our tabernacles there ; 
And, Peter-like, for very human joy 
We cry aloud : t 'Tis good that we are here ; ' 
Swift are these moments, like the smile of God, 
Which glorifies a shadow and is gone* 

'•And then we stand upon another mount— -^ 

Dark, rugged Calvary ; and God keep3 us therd 

For awful hours, to make us there His own 

In crucifixion's tortures; 'tis His way* 

We wish to cling to Thabor; He says : i No.' 

And what He srjs is best because most true. 

We fain would fly from Calvary; He says: 'No.' 

And it is true because it is the best. 

And yet, my friend, these two mounts are the same. 

"They lie apart, distinct alld separate 

And yet — strange mystei'y !— they are the iaiflfc 

For Calvary is a Thaboi' in the? darky 

And Thabor is a Calvary in the light 

It is the mystery of Holy Christ ! 



FRAGMENTS FKOM AN EPIC POEM, 151 

It is the mystery of you and me! 

Earth's shadows move, as moves far-heaven's sun, 

And, like the shadows of a dial, we 

Tell, darkly, in the vale the very hours 

The sun tells, brightly in the sinless skies. 

Dost understand ? " I did not understand — 

Or only half; his face was very sad. 

"Dost thou not understand me? Then your life 

Is shallow as a brook that brawls along 

Between two narrow shores; you never wept— 

You never wore great clouds upon your brow 

As mountains wear them; and you never wore 

Strange glories in your eyes, as sunset-skies 

Oft wear them ; and your lips— they never sighed 

Grand sighs which bear the weight of all the soul > 

You never reached your arms a-broad— -a-high-— 

To grasp far-worlds, or to enclasp the sky. 

Life, only life, can understand a life; 

Depth, only depth, can understand the deep* 

The dewdrop glist'ning on the lily's face 

Can never learn the story of the sea." 

One day we strolled together to the sea. 
Gray evening and the night had almost met, 



152 FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 

We walked between them, silent, to the shore. 

The feet of weird-faced waves ran up the beach 

Like children in mad play, then back again 

As if the spirit of the land pursued; 

Then up again — and farther — and they flung 

White, foamy arms around each other's neck; 

Then back again with sudden rush and shout, 

As if the sea, their mother, called them home ; 

Then leaned upon her breast, as if so tired, 

But swiftly tore themselves away and rushed 

Away, and further up the beach, and fell 

For utter weariness ; and loudly sobbed 

For strength to rise and flow back to the deep. 

But all in vain, for other waves swept on 

And trampled them ; the sea cried out in grief, 

The gray beach laughed, and clasped them to the sands. 

It was the flood-tide and the even-tide— 

Between the evening and the night we walked— 

We walked between the billows and the beach, 

We walked between the future and the past, 

Down to the sea we twain had strolled— to part* 

The shore was low, with just the faintest rise 
Of many-colored sands and shreds of shells^ 
Until about a stone's far throw thev met 



FRAGMENTS FPOM AN EPIC POEM. 153 

A fringe of faded grass, with here and there 

A pale-green shrub; and farther into land — 

Another stone's throw farther — there were trees — 

Tall, dark, wild trees, with entertwining arms, 

Each almost touching each, as if they feared 

To stand alone and look upon the sea. 

The night was in the trees — the evening on the shore. 

We walked betwcen-the evening and the night— 

Between the trees and tide we silent strolled. 

There lies between man's silence and his speech 

A shadowy valley, where thro' those who pass 

Are never silent, tho' they may not speak ; 

And yet they more than breathe. It is the vale 

Of wordless sighs, half-uttered and half heard. 

It is the vale of the unutterable. 

We walked between our silence and our speech. 

And sighed between the sunset and the stars, 

One hour beside the sea. 

There was a cloud 
Par o'er the reach of waters, hanging low 
'Tw^en s:a and sky — the banner of the storm. 
Its edges faintly bright, as if the rays 
That fled far down the West had rested there 
And slumbered, and had left a dream of light. 



154: FRAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 

Its inner folds were dark — its central, more. 

It did not flatter; there it hung, as calm 

As banner in a temple o'er a shrine. 

Its shadow only fell upon the sea, 

Above the shore the heavens bended blue. 

We walked between the cloudless and the cloud, 

That hour, beside the sea. 

But, quick as thought, 
There gleamed a sword of wild, terrific light — 
Its hilt in heaven, its point hissed in the sea, 
Its scabbard in the darkness— and it tore 
The bannered cloud into a thousand shreds, 
Then quivered far away, and bent and broke 
In flashing fragments ; 

And there came a peal 
That shook the mighty sea from shore to shore, 
But did not stir a sand-grain on the beach; 
Then silence fell, and where the low cloud hung 
Clouds darker gathered — and they proudly waved 
Like flags before a battle. 

We twain walked — 
We walked between the lightning's parted gleams, 
We walked between the thunders of the skies, 



FKAGMENTS FROM AN EPIC POEM. 155 

We walked between the wavings of the clouds, 
We walked between the tremblings of the sea, 
We walked between the stillnesses and roars 
Of frightened billows; and we walked between 
The coming tempest and the dying calm — 
Batween the tranquil and the terrible— 
That hour, beside the sea. 

There was a rock 
Far up the winding beach, that jutted in 
The sea and broke the heart of every wave 
That struck its breast; not steep enough nor high 
To be a cliff, nor yet sufficient rough 
To be a crag; a simple, low, lone rock ; 
Yet not so low ag that its brow was laved 
By highest tide, yet not sufficient high 
To rise beyond the reach of silver-spray 
That rained up from the waves— their tears that fell 
Upon its face, when they died at his feet. 
Around its sides damp sea- weed hung in long, 
Sad tresses, dripping down into the sea. 
A tuft or two of grass did green the rock, 
A patch or so of moss ; the rest was bare. 

Adown the shore we walked 'tween eve and night; 
But when we reached the rock, the eve and night 



156 FRAGMENTS FEOM AN EPIC POEM. 

Had met; light died; we sat down in the dark 
Upon the rock. 

Meantime a thousand clouds 
Careered and clashed in air — a thousand waves 
Whirled wildly on in wrath— a thousand winds 
Howled hoarsely on the main; and down the skies 
Into the hollow seas the fierce rain rushed, 
As if its ev'ry drop were hot with wrath ; 
And, like a thousand serpents intercoiled, 
The lightnings glared and hissed, and hissed and glared, 
And all the horror shrank in horror back 
Before the maddest peals that ever leaped 
Out from the thunder's throat. 

Within the dark 
We silent sat. 2To rain fell on the rock, 
Nor in on land, nor shore ; only on sea 
The upper and the lower waters met 
In wild delirium, like a thousand hearts 
Far parted — parted long — which meet to break, 
Which rush into each other's arms and break 
In terror and in tempests wild of tears. 
No rain fell on the rock ; but flakes of foam 
Swept cold against our faces, where we sat 
Between the hush and howling of the winds, 



£AKE COMQ, 157 

Between the swells and sinkings of the waves, 
Between the stormy sea and stilly shore, 
Between the rushings of the maddened rains, 
Between the dark beneath and dark above, 

We sat within the dread heart of the night. 
One, pale with terror ; one, as calm and still 
And stern and moveless as the lone, low rock. 



LAKE C03I0. 



ft *fil INTEK on tho moun tains l 
^r> Summer on the shore, 
•^ The robes of sun-gleams woven, 
The lak/s blue wavelets wore. 



Cold, white, against the heavens, 
Flashed winter's crown of snow, 

And the blossoms of the spring-tide 
Waved brightly far below. 



158 LAKE COMO. 

The mountain's head was dreary, 
The cold and cloud were there, 

But the mountain's feet were sandaled 
With flowers of beauty rare. 

And winding thro' the mountains 
The lake's calm wavelets rolled, 

And a cloudless sun was gilding 
Their ripples with its gold. 

Adown the lake we glided 

Thro' all the sunlit day; 
The cold snows gleamed above us, 

But fair flowers fringed our way. 

The snows crept down the mountain, 
The flowers crept up the slope, 

Till they seemed to meet and mingle, 
Like human fear and hope. 

But the same rich golden sunlight 
Fell on the flowers and snow, 

Like the smile of God that flashes 
On hearts in joy or woe. 



LAKE COMO. 159 



And on the lake's low margin 
The trees wore stoles of green, 

"While here and there, amid them, 
A convent crocs was seen. 

Anon a ruined castle, 

Moss-mantled, loomed in view, 
And cast its solemn shadow 

Across the water's blue. 

And chapel, cot and villa, 
Met here and there our gaze, 

And many a crumbling tower 
That told of other days. 

And scattered o'er the waters 
The fishing boats lay still, 

And sound of song so softly 
Came echoed from the hill* 

At times the mountain's shadow 
Fell dark across the scene, 

And veiled with veil of purple 
The wavelets' silver sheen. 



160 LAKE COItfO. 

Bat for a moment only; 

The lake would wind, and lo! 
The waves would near the glory 

Of the sunlight's brightest glow. 

At times there fell a silence 

Unbroken by a tone, 
As if no sound of voices 

Had ever there been known. 

Through strange and lonely places 
"We glided thus for hours j 

Yfe saw no other faces 

But the faces of the flowers. 

The shores were sad and lonely 
As hearts without a love, 

While darker and more dreary 
The mountains rose above. 

But sudden round a headland 
The lake would sweep again, 

And voices from a village 
Would meet us with their strain. 



LAKE COMO. 161 

Thus all the day we glided, 

Until the Vesper bell 
Gave to the day, at sunset, 

Its sweet and soft farewell. 

Then back again we glided 

Upon our homeward way, 
When twilight wrapped the waters 

And the mountains with its gray. 

But brief the reign of twilight, 

The night came quickly on ; 
The dark brow o'er the mountains, 

Star- wreathed, brightly shone. 

And down thro' all the shadows 

The star-gleams softly crept, 
And kissed, with lips all-shining, 

The wavelets ere they slept. 

The lake lay in a slumber, 

The shadows for its screen, 
While silence waved her sceptre 

Above the sleeping scene. 



162 LAKE COMO. 

The spirit of the darkness 
Moved, ghost-like, everywhere; 

Wherever starlight glimmered, 
Its shadow, sure, fell there. 

The lone place grew more lonely, 

And all along our way 
The mysteries of the night-time 

Held undisputed sway. 

Thro' silence and thro' darknes3 
We glided down the tide 

That wound around the mountains 
That rose on either side. 

No eyes would close in slumber 
Within our little bark-- 

What charmed us so in daylight 
So awed Us in the dark* 

tlpon the deck we lingered* 
A whisper scarce w r as heard; 

When hearts are stirred profoundesfc* 
Lips are without a word. 



LAKE COMO. 163 

"Let's say the Chaplet," softly 

A voice beside me spake. 
w Oh ist walked once in the darkness 

Across an Eastern Like, 

"And to-night we know the secret 
Tl at will charm Him to our side : 
Ii we call upon His Mother, 
He will meet us on the tide." 

So we said the beads together, 

Up and down the little bark, 
And I believe that Jesus met us, 

With His Mother, in the dark. 

And our prayers were scarcely ended 

"When, on mountain-top afar, 
We beheld the morning meeting 

With the night's last fading star* 

And I left the lake; but never 

Shall the years to come efface 
From my heart the dream and vision 

Of that strange and lonely place. 

Feb. 1st, 1873. 



"PEACE! BE ST1LL. U 



■SOMETIMES the Saviour sleeps, and it is dark ; 
Hi 

■ For oh ! His eyes arc this world's only light, 



•^ And when they close wild waves rush on His 
bark, 
And toss it through the dread hours of the night. 

So He slept once upon an Eastern lake, 
In Peter's bark, while wild waves raved at will ; 
/ A cry smote on Him, and when He did wake, 
He softly whispered, and the sea grew still. 

tt is a mystery : but He seems to sleep 

As erst He slept in Peter's wave-rocked bark; 

A storm is sweeping all across the deep, 
While Pius prays, like Peter, in the dark* 

The sky is darkened, and the shore is fal*, 

The tempest's strength grows fiercer every hour t 

tjpon the howling deep there shines no star* 
Why sleeps He still ? Why does He hide His power? 

(1W) 



GOOD FRIDAY. 165 

Fear not ! a lioly hand is on the helm 

That guides the bark thro' all the tempest's wrath; 
Quail not! the wildest waves can never whelm 

The ship of faith upon its homeward path. 

The Master sleeps — His pilot guards the bark; 

He soon will wake, and at His mighty will 
The light will shine where all before was dark — 

The wild waves still remember; "Teace^ be still." 

Home, 1873. 



GOOD FRIDAY. 




H ! Heart of Three-in-the evening, 
You nestled the thorn-crowned head ; 

He leaned on you in His sorrow, 
And rested on you when dead* 



Ah! Holy Three-in-the evening 
He gave you His richest dower ; 

He met you afar on Calvary, 

And made you "His own last hour*'* 



166 MY BEADS. 

Oh! Brow of Three-in-the evening, 
Thou wearest a crimson crown ; 

Thou art Priest of the hours forever, 
And thy voice, as thou goest down 

The cycles of time, still murmurs 
The story of love each day : 
" I held in death the Eternal, 

In the long and the far-away." 

Oh! Heart of Three-in-the evening, 
Mine beats with thine to day ; 

Thou tellest the olden story, 
I kneel — and I weep and pray. 

Boulogne, sur mer. 



MT BEADS. 



|WEET, blessed beads! I would not part 
f With one of you for richest gem 
That gleams in kingly diadem ; 
Ye know the history of my heart. 



MY BEADS. 167 

For I have told you every grief 
In all the days of twenty years, 
And I have moistened you with tears, 

And in your decades found relief. 

Ah ! time has fled, and friends have failed, 
And joys have died ; but in my needs 
Ye were my friends, my blessed beads ! 

And ye consoled me when I wailed. 

For many and many a time, in grief, 
My weary fingers wandered round 
Thy circled chain, and always found 

In some Hail Mary sweet relief. 

How many a story you might tell 

Of inner life, to all unknown ; 

I trusted you and you alone, 
But ah! ye keep my secrets well. 

Ye are the only chain I wear — 
A sign that I am but the slave, 
In life, in death, beyond the grave, 

Of Jesus and His Mother fair. 



AT NIGHT. 



HmREAIlY! weary! 

Sffx 3 Weary! dreary! 
^ Sighs my soul this lonely night 
Farewell gladness ! 
Welcome sadness ! 
Vanished are my visions bright. 

Stars are shining! 

Winds are pining ! 
In the sky and o'er the sea; 

Shine forever 

Stars ! but never 
Can the starlight gladden me, 

Stars ! you nightly 

Sparkle brightly, 
Scattered o'er your azure dome ; 

While earth's turning, 

There you're burning, 
Beacons of a better home. 

(168) 



AT NIGHT. 160 



Stars! you brighten 
And you lighten 

Many a heart-grief here below \ 
Put your gleaming 
And your beaming 

Cannot chase away my woe. 

Stars ! you're shining, 

I am pining-— 
I am dark, but you are bright 5 

Hanging o'er me 

And before me 
Js a night yqu cannot light, 

Night of sorrow, 
Whose to-morrow 
I mny never, never see, 
Till upon me 
And around mo 
Dawns a bright eternity. 

Winds ! you're sighing, 
And you're crying, 
Like a mourner o'er a tomb; 



170 AT NIGHT. 

Whither go ye, 
Whither blow ye, 
Wailing through the midnight gloom? 

Chanting lowly, 

Softly, lowly, 
Like the voice of one in woe ; 

Winds £0 lonely, 

Why thus moan ye ? 
Say, what makes you sorrow 7 so ? 

Are you grieving 

For your leaving 
Scenes where all is fair and gay ? 

For the flowers, 

In their bowers, 
You have met with on your way? 

For fond faces, 

For dear places, 
That you've seen as on you swept? 

Are you sighing, 

Are you crying, 
O'er the memories they have left? 



NOCTURNE. 171 

Earth is sleeping 

While you're sweeping 
Through night's solemn silence by; 

On forever, 

Pausing never — 
How I loA^e to hear you sigh I 

Men are dreaming, 

Stars are gleaming 
In the far-off heaven's blue ; 

Bosom aching, 
1 Musing, waking, 

Midnight winds, I sigh with you ! 

f 

3 . __ 

■ ';f — — * — — ~- -ma ■ - - ■ ■ - i i . ■ . , ■■, 



170CTVRNE. 



bJ 1 



M 



ifPl'ETIMES, I seem to see in dreams 
*/f§4> What when awake I may not see; 
•^ ' Can night be G od's more than the day ? 
Do stars, not suns, best light His way? 
Who knoweth ? Blended lights and shades 
Arch aisles down which He walks to me. 



172 NOCTURNE. 

I hear Him coming in the night 
Afar, and yet I know not how ; 
His steps make music low and sweet; 
Sometimes the nails are in His feet; 
Does darkness give God better light 
Than day, to find a weary brow ? 

t)oes darkness give man brighter rays 
To find the God, in sunshine lost ? 
Must shadows wrap the trysting-place 
"Where God meets hearts with gentlest grace? 
Who know r eth it ? God hath His ways 
For every soul here sorrow-tossed. 

The hours of day are like the waves 
That fret against the shores of sin: 
They touch the human everywhere, 
The Bright-Divine fades in their glare; 
And God's sweet voice the spirit craves 
Is heard too faintly in the din. 

When all the senses are awake, 
The mortal presses overmuch 
Upon the great immortal part — 
And God seems further from the heart. 
Must souls, like skies, when day-dawns break, 
Lose star by star at sunlight's touch. 



NOCTURNE. 173 

But when the sun kneels in the west, 
And grandly sinks as great hearts sink ; 
And in his sinking, flings adown 
Bright blessings from his fading crown, 
The stars begin their song of rest, 

And shadows make the thoughtless think* 

The human seems to fade away; 

And down the starred and shadowed skie3 
The heavenly comes — as memories come 
Of home, to hearts afar from home; 
And thro' the darkness after day 
Many a winged angel flies. 

And somehow, tho' the eyes see less, 
Our spirits seem to see the more; 
When we look thro' night's shadow-bars 
The soul sees more than shining stars, 
Yea— sees the very loveliness 

That rests upon the " Golden Shore." 

Strange reveries steal o'er us then, 
Like keyless chords of instruments, 
With music's soul without the notes; 
And subtle, sad, and sweet there floats 
A melody not made by men, 
Nor ever heard by outer sense; 



174: SUNLESS DAYS. 

And " what has been/' and "what will be/ ; 
And "what is not," but "might have been," 
The dim "to be," the "mournful gone," 
The little things life rested on 
In "Long-ago's," give tone, not key, 
To reveries beyond our ken* 



SUNLESS DAYS. 



/ilflilrlEY come to ev'ry life — sad, sunless days, 
e 7& 9 With not a light all o'er their clouded skies; 
•^ And thro' the dark we grope along our ways 
With hearts fear-filled, and lips low-breathing sighs. 

What is the dark ? Why cometh it? and whence ? 

Why does it banish all the bright away ? 
How does it weave a spell o'er soul and sense ? 

Why falls the shadow where'er gleams the ray? 

Hast felt it ? I have felt it, and I know 

How oft and suddenly the shadows roll 
From out the depths of some dim realm of woe*, 

To wrap their darkness round the human soul. 



A REVERIE, 175 

Those days are darker than the very night; 

For nights have stars, and sleep, and happy dreams; 
But these days bring unto the spirit-sight 

T'he mysteries of gloom, until it seeni3 

The light is gone forever, and the dark 
Hangs like a pall of death above the soul, 

Which rocks amid the gloom like storm-swept bark, 
And sinks beneath a sea were tempests roll. 

Winter on the Atlantic. 



A REVERIE. 



|«ID I dream of a song? or sing in a dream? 
S|^Why ask when the night only knoweth.? 

*• The night — and the angel of sleep! 
But ever since then a music deep, 
Like a stream thro' a shadow-land, floweth 
Under each thought of my spirit that groweth 
Into the blossom and bloom of speech — 
Under each fancy that cometh and goeth ; 
Wayward, as wave3 when evening breeze bloweth 
Out of the sunset and into the beacln 



176 



And is it a wonder I wept to-day ? 

For I mused and thought, but I cannot say 

If I dreamed of a song, or sang in a dream. 

In the silence of sleep, and the noon of night; 

And now — even now — 'neath the words I write, 

The flush of the dream, or the flow of the song- 

I cannot tell winch — moves strangely along. 

But why write more ? I am puzzled sore : 

Did I dream of a song ? or sing in a dream ? 

Ah! hush, heart! hush! 'tis of no avail; 

The words of earth are a darksome veil, 

The poet weaves it with artful grace; 

Lifts it off from his thoughts at times, 

Lets it rustle along his rhymes, 

But gathers it close, covering the face 

Of ev'ry thought that must not part 

From out the keeping of his heart. 



ST. MARY'S. 



«ifi§||ACK to where the roses rest 
*^* Sfk 9 Bound a shrine of holy name, 

•^ (Yes — they knew me when I came) 

More of peace and less of fame 
Suit my restless heart the best. 



st. mary's. 177 

Back to where long quiets brood, 
Where the calm is never stirred 
By the harshness of a word, 
But instead the singing bird 

Sweetens all my solitude. 



With the birds and with the flowers 
Songs and silences unite, 
From the morning unto night ; 
And somehow a clearer light 

Shines along the quiet hours. 

God comes closer to me here- 
Back of ev'ry rose leaf there 
He is hiding — and the air 
Thrills with calls to holy prayer ; 

Earth grows for, and heaven near. 

Every single flower is fraught 
With the very sweetest dreams, 
Under clouds or under gleams 
Changeful ever — yet meseems 

On each leaf I read God's thought. 



178 ST. MARY'S. 

Still, at times, as place of death, 
Not a sound to vex the ear, 
Yet withal it is not drear ; 
Better for the heart to hear, 

Far from men — God's gentle breath. 



Where men clash, God always clings : 
When the human passes by, 
Like a cloud from Summer sky 
God so gently draweth nigh, 

And the brightest blessings brings. 

List! e'en now a wild bird sings, 
And the roses seem to hear, 
Every note that thrills my ear, 
Rising to the heavens clear, 

And mv soul soars on its wings 



Up into the silent skies 
Where the sunbeams veil the star, 
L T p — beyond the clouds afar, 
Where no discords ever mar, 

Where rests poace that never die£ 



rfffi^l 



DE TROFUNDIS. 179 

So I live within the calm, 
And the birds and roses know 
That the days that come and go 
Are as peaceful as the flow 

Of a prayer beneath a p:alm. 



DE PROFUND1S. 






«,i^feH! days so dark with death's eclipse! 
I'k 9 Woe are we! woe are we! 
•^ And the nights are ages long ! 
From breaking hearts, thro' pallid lips 
Oh! my God! woe are we! 
Trembleth the mourners' song; 
A blight is falling on the fair, 
And hope is dying in despair, 
And terror walketh everywhere. 

All the hours are full of tears — 
Oh ! my God ! woe are we ! 
Grief keeps watch in brightest eyes — - 
Every heart is strung with fears, 
Woe are we ! woe are we ! 
All the light hath left the skies, 



180 DE PROFUSDIS, 

And the living awe -struck crowds 
See above them only clouds, 
And around them oply shrouds, 



Ah! the terrible farewells! 

Woe are they ! woe ^re they ! 
When last words sink into moans, 
While life's trembling vesper bells— » 
Oh, my God ! woe pre we J 
Ring the awful undertones! 
Not a sun in any day ! 
In the nightrtime not a ray, 
And thp dying pass $way ! 

Park ! so dark ! above—below— 
Oh ! my God ! woe are we ! 
Cowereth every human life. 
Wild the wailing; to and fro! 
Woe are all ! woe are we ! 
Death is victor in the strife : 
In the hut and in the hall 
He is writing on the wall 
Dooms for many — fears for all. 



DE PKOFUNDIS. 181 

Thro' the cities burns a breath, 
Woe are they! woe are we ! 
Hot with dread and deadly wrath; 
Life and love lock arms in death, 
Woe are they ! woe are all ! 
Victims strew the spectre's path ; 
Shy-eyed children softly creep 
Where their mothers wail and weep—* 
In the grave their fathers sleep, 

Mothers waft their prayers on high, 

Oh I my God ! woe are we ! 
With their dead child on their breast. 
And the altars ask the sky — 

Oh ! my Christ ! woe are we ! 
"Give the dead, oh! Father, rest! 

Spare thy people ! mercy ! spare ! " 

Answer will not come to prayer— 

Horror moveth everywhere. 

And the temples miss the priest— 
Oh! my God! woe are we! 
And the cradel mourns the child. 
Husband at your bridal feast — 
Woe are you ! woe are you ! 
Think how those poor dead eyes smiled ; 



182 DE PEOFUKDIS. 

They will never smile again — 

Every tie is cut in twain, 

All the strength of love is vain. 

Weep ? but tears are weak as foam- 
Woe are ye ! w r oe are we ! 
They but break upon the shore 
Winding between here and home — 
Woe are ye ! woe are we ! 
Wailing never ! nevermore ! 
Ah ! the dead ! they are so loue, 
Just a grave, and just a stone. 
And the memory of a moan. 

Pray ! yes, pray ! for God is sweet— 
Oh ! my God ! woe are we! 
Tears will trickle into prayers 
When we kneel down at His feet- 
Woe are we ! w r oe are we ! 
With our crosses and our cares. 
He will calm the tortured breast, 
He will give the troubled rest — 
And the dead He watcheth best. 



WHEN? 



l|OME day in Spring, 
S&? When earth is fair and glad, 
«"• And sweet birds sing, 

And fewest hearts are sad— 
Shall I die then? 
Ah! me, no matter when; 
I know it will be sweet 

To leave the homes of men 
And rest beneath the sod, 
To kneel and kiss Thy feet 
lii Thy home, Oh ! my God. 

Some Summer morn 

Of splendors and of songs, 
When roses hide the thorn 
And smile, — the spirit's wrongs- 
Shall I die then ? 
Ah ! me, no matter when ; 



(183) 



18i WHEN I 



I know I will rejoice 

To leave the haunts of men 

And lie beneath the sod, 
To hear Thy tender voice 

In Thy home, Oh! my God. 

Some Autumn eve, 

When chill clouds drape the sky, 
When bright things grieve 
Because all fair things die- 
Shall I die then ? 
Ah! me, no matter when; 
I know I shall be glad, 

Away from the homes of men, 
Adown beneath the sod, 
My heart will not be sad 
In Thy home, Oh ! my God. 

Some Wintry day, 

When all skies wear a gloom, 
And beauteous May 
Sleeps in December's tomb, 
Shall I die then? 
Ah! me, no matter when; 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 185 

My soul shall throb with joy 
To leave the haunts of men 

And sleep beneath the sod. 
Ah! there is no alloy 

In Thy joys, Oh! my God. 

Haste, death! be fleet; 
I know it will be sweet 

To rest beneath the sod, 
To kneel and kiss Thy feet 

In heaven, Oh ! my God. 



THE CONQUEBED BANNER, 



ippUEL that Banner, for 'tis weary; 

T Bound its staff 'tis drooping dreary ; 
Purl it, fold it, it is best; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
Purl it, hide it — let it rest ! 



186 * THE CONQUEKED BANKER. 

Take that Banner down ! 'tis tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Purl that Banner! furl it sadly! 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave; 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 

Furl it! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it$ 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner— it is trailing ! 
While around it sounds the Wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 



THE CONQUERED BANNER. 187 

For, though conquered, they adore it! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! ■ 
But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, 
Now who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
And 'twill live in song and story, 

Though its folds are in the dust: 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages- 
Furl its folds though now we must* 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never, 
Let it droop there, furled forever, 

For its people's hopes are dead ! 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 



^m 



^SkHEY ask me to sing them a Christmas song 
h&f That with musical mirth shall ring; 
•^ How know I that the world's great throng 
Will care for the words I sing. 

Let the young and the gay chant the Christmas lay, 

Their voices and hearts are glad; 
But I— I am old, and my locks are gray, 

And they tell me my voice is sad. 

Ah ! once I could sing* when my heart beat warm 
With hopes, bright as life's first Spring; 

But the Spring hath fled, and the golden charm 
Hath gone from the songs I sing* 

t have lost the speil that my verse could weave 
O'er the souls of the old and young* 

And never again — how it makes me grieve— 
IShall I sing as once I siing* 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 189 

Why ask a song ? ah ! perchance you believe, . 

Since my days are so nearly past, 
That the song you'll hear on this Christmas eve 

Is the old man's best and last. 

Do you want the jingle of rhythm and rhyme ? 

Art's sweet but meaningless notes ? 
Or the music of thought, that, like the chime 

Of a grand Cathedral, floats 

Out of each word, and along each line, 

Into the spirit's ear, 
Lifting it up, and making it pine 

For a something far from here. 

Bearing the wings of the soul aloft 

From earth and its shadows dim; 
Soothing the breast with a sound as soft 

As a dream, or a Seraph's hymn ; 

Evoking the solemnest hopes and fears 

From our being's higher part ; 
Dimming the eyes with radiant tears 

That flow from a spellbound heart ? 



190 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

Do they want a song that is only a song, 

With no mystical meanings rife ? 
Or a music that solemnly moves along — 

The undertone of a life I 

Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, 
Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules — 

A melody moves through my aged heart 
Kot learned from the books or schools : 

A music I learned in the days long gone — 

I cannot tell where or how — 
But no matter where, it still sounds on 

Back of this wrinkled brow. 

And down in my heart I hear it still, 

Like the echoes of far-off bells ; 
Like the dreamy sound of a Summer rill 

Flowing through fairy dells. 

But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, 
And what the w T ords of the old man's song? 

The world, they tell me, is so giddy grown 

That thought is rare ; 
And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone 

Hold empire there ; 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 191 

That fools have prestige, place and power and famej 

Can it be true 
That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, 

And wise are few ? 

They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, 

With high and low ; 
That truth and honor are the slaves of gain ; 

Can it be so ? 

That lofty principle hath long been dead 

And in a shroud; 
That virtue walks ashamed, Avith downcast head, 

Amid the crowd. 

They tell me, too, that few they are who own 

God's law and love ; 
That thousands, living for this earth alone, 

Look not above ; 

That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, 

Men tread the path, 
Blaspheming Gocl, and careless of the curse 

Of His dread wrath. 



192' A CHKISTMAS CHANT, 

And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, 

Or to the few 
Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain 

Who still are true ? 

No ! not for the false shall I strike the strings 
Of the lyre that was mute so long ; 

If I sing at all, the gray bard sings 
For the few and the true his song. 

And ah ! there is many a changeful mood 

That over my spirit steals ; 
Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, 

Whatever he dreams or feels, 

Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve 

Are haunting the lonely man, 
Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve, 

He'll sing them as best he can, 

Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke 

This holiest night of the year, 
Who knows how its melody may wake 

A Christmas smile or a tear ? 



A CHUTSyHAS CHANT. 193 

go pn with the mystic song, 

With its meaning manifold- 
Two tones in every word, 
Two though^ in eyery tone; 
In the measured wards th#t move along 
One meaning shall be heard, 
One thought to all be told; 
Cut under it all, to be alone™ 
And under it all, to all unknown-^ 
As safe as under a coffin-lid, 
Deep meanings shall be hid, 
Find them out who can! 
The thoughts concealed and unreve.iled 
In the song of the lonely man, 
* * # # * * 

I'm sitting alone in my silent room 

This long December night, 
Watching the fire-flame fill the gloom 
With many a picture bright. 
Ah ! how the fire can paint ! 
Its magic skill how strange ! 
How every spark 
On the canvass dark- 
Draws figures and forms so quaint! 
And how the picture change! 



194 A CHEISTMAS CHANT. 

One moment how they smile ! 

And in less than a little while, 
In the twinkling of an eye, 
Like the gleam of a Summer sky, 

The beaming smiles all die. 

From gay to grave— from grave to gay — 
The faces change in the shadows grey; 
And just as I wonder who are they, 

Over them all, 

Like a funeral pall. 
The folds of the shadows droop and fall, 

And the charm is gone, 

And every one 
Of the pictures fade away. 

Ah ! the fire within my grate 

Hath more than Raphael's power, 

Is more than Raphael's peer; 
It paints for me in a little hour 
More than he in a year ; 
And the pictures Hanging 'round me here 

This holy Christmas eve 
No artist's pencil could create — 
No painter s art conceive ; 






A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 195 

Ah ! those cheerful faces, 

Wearing youthful graces! 
I gaze on them until I seem 
Half awake and half in dream. 
There are brows without a mark, 

Features bright without a shade I 

There are eyes without a tear; 
There are lips unused to sigh. 
Ah ! never mind — you soon shall die! 

All those faces soon shall fade, 

Fade into the dreary dark 

Like their pictures hanging here. 

-Lo! those tearful faces, 

Bearing age's traces 1 

I gaze on them, and they on me, 
Until I feel a sorrow steal 
Trough my heart so drearily; 

There are faces furrowed de3p; 
There are eyes that used to weep ; 

There are brows beneath a cloud ; 
There are hearts that want to sleep. 
Never mind ! the shadows creep 
From the death-land; and a shroud, 



196 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

Tenderly as mother's arm, 
Soon shall shield the old from harm ; 
Soon shall wrap it3 robe of rest 
Round each sorrow-haunted breast 

Ah ! that face of mother's, 
Sister's too, and brother's — 
And so many others, 
Dear is every name— 
And Ethel ! Thou art there, 
With thy child-face sweet and fair, 
And thy heart so bright 
In its shroud so white J 
Just as I saw you last 
In the golden, happy past; 
And you seem to wear 
Upon your hair— 
Your waving, golden hair — 

The smile of the setting sun. 
Ah ! me, how years will run! 
But all the years cannot efface 
Your purest name, your sweetest grace, 
From the heart that still is true 
Of all the world to y(Tu ; 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 197 

The other faces shine, 
But none so fair as thine; 
And, wherever they are to-night, 1 know 
They look the very same 
As in their pictures hanging here 
This night, to memory dear, 
And painted by the flames, 
With tombstones in the background. 
And shadows for their frames. 

And thus, with my pictures only* 
And the fancies they unweave, 

Alone, and yet not lonely, 
I keep my Christmas eve. 

Vm sitting alone in my pictured room— • 
But, no I they have vanished all— 

I'm watching the fire-glow fade into gloom, 
I'm watching the ashes fall. 

And far away back of the cheerful blaze 

The beautiful visions of by-gone days 

Are rising before my raptured gaze. 

Ah ! Christmas fire, so bright and warm* 
Hast thou a wizard's magic charm 

To bring those far-off scenes so near 

And make my past days meet me here ? 



193 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

Tell me— tell me— how is it ? 
The past is past, and here I sit, 

And there, lo ! there before me rise, 
Beyond yon glowing flame, 

The Summer suns of childhood's skies, 
Yes — yes — the very same ! 

I saw them rise long, long ago; 

I played beneath their golden glow; 
And I remember yet, 
I often cried with strange regret 
When in the west I saw them set- 

And there they are again ; 

The suns, the skies, the very days 

Of childhood, just beyond that blaze ! 
But, ah ! such visions almost craze 
The old man's puzzled brain I 

I thought the past was past I 
But, no! it cannot be; 
'Tis here to-night with me! 

How is it, then ? the past of meii 

Is part of one eternity — 
The days oF yore We so deplore!* 
They are ndt dead-=they ard not fled* 
They live and live for evermore; 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 193 

And thus my past comes back to me 
With all its visions fair. 

Oh ! Past ! could I go back to thee, 
And live forever there! 
But, no! there's frost upon my hair; 
My feet have trod a path of care ; 

And worn and wearied here I sit, 

I am too tired to go to it. 

And thus with visions only, 
And the fancies they unweave, 

Alone, and yet not lonely, 
I keep my Christmas eve. 

I am sitting alone in my fire-lit room; 

. But, no ! the fire is dying, 
And the weary-voiced winds, in the outer gloom, 
Are sad, and I hear them sighing* 
The wind hath a voice to pine- 
Plaintive, and pensive, and low J 
tlath it a heart, like mine or thine ? 

Knoweth it weal or woe ? 
How it wails, in a ghost-like strain, 
Just against that window pane ! 



200 A CHRISTMAS CHANT, 

As if it were tired of its long, cold flight. 
And wanted to rest with me to-night. 
Cease! night-winds cease ! 
Why should you be sad ? 
This is a night of joy and peace, 

And heaven and earth are glad ! 
But still the wind's voice grieves! 
Perchance o'er the fallen leaves, 
Which, in their Summer bloom, 
Danced to the music of bird and breeze, 
But, torn from the arms of their parent trees, 
Lie now in their wintry tomb — 
Mute types of man's own doom. 

And thus with the night winds only, 
And the fancies they unweave, 

Alone, and yet not lonely, 
I keep my Christmas eve. 

How long have I been dreaming here ? 

Or have I dreamed at all ? 
My fire is dead — my pictures fled — 
There's nothing left but shadows drear. 

Shadows on the wall : 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 201 

Shifting, flitting, 

Round me sitting 
In my old arm chair — 

Eising, sinking 

Round me, thinking, 

Till, in the maze of many a dream, 

I'm not myself; and I almost seem 

Like one of the shadows there. 

Well, let the shadows stay! 

I wonder who are they ? 
I cannot say; but I almost believe 
They know to-night is Christmas eve, 

And to-morrow Christmas day. 

Ah! there's nothing like a Christmas eve 
To change life's bitter gall to sweet, 
And change the swe^t to gall again; 

To take the thorns from out our feet — 
The thorns and all their dreary pain, 
Only to put them back again* 

To take old stings from out our heart — 
Old stings that made them bleed and smart — 
Only to sharpen them the more, 
And pre33 them back to the heart's own core. 



202 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

Ah ! no eye is like the Christmas eye ! 
Fears and hopes, and hopes and fears, 
Tears and smiles, and smiles and tears, 
Cheers and sighs, and sighs and cheers, 
Sweet and bitter, bitter, sweet, 

Bright and dark, and dark and bright. 
All these mingle, all these meet, 
In this great and solemn night. 

Ah ! there's nothing like a Christmas eye 
To melt, with kindly glowing heat, 
From off our souls the snow and sleet, 
The dreary drift of wintry years, 

Only to make the cold winds blow, 
Only to make a Colder snow ; 
And make it drift, and drift, and drift, 
In flakes so icy-cold and swift, 

Until the heart that lies below 
Is cold and colder than the 3now. 

And thus with the shadows only, 
And the dreamings they unweaye, 

Alone, and yet not lonely, 
I keep my Christmas eye. 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 203 

'Tis passing fast ! 

My fireless, lampless room 

Is a mass of moveless gloom; 
And without — a darkness vast, 

Solemn— starless— still ! 

Heaven and earth doth fill. 

But list! there soundeth a tell, 
With a mystical ding, dong, dell ! 
Is it, say, is it a funeral knell ? 
Solemn and slow, 
"Now loud — now low; 
Pealing the notes of human woe 
Over the graves lying under the snow ! 
Ah ! that pitiless ding, dong dell ! 
Trembling along the gale, 
Under the stars and over the snow. 
Why is it ? whence is it sounding so ? 
Is it a toll of a burial bell ? 
Or is it a spirit's wail ? 
Solemnly,, mournfully, 
Sad — and how lornfully ! 

Ding, dong, dell ! 
Whence is it ? who can tell ? 
And the marvelous notes they sink and swell, 



204 A CIIRJSTMAg CJJAtfT. 

Sadder, and sadder, and sadder still! 
JIpw the souads tremble! how they thrill ! 

Every tone 

So like a moan ; 
As if the strange bell's stranger clang 
Throbbed with a terrible human pang, 

Ding, dong, dell ! 

Dismally, drearity, 

Ever go wearily. 
Far off and faint as a R?quiem plaint 
floats the deep-toned voice of the mystic bell. 

Pieroingly — thrillingly, 

Icily — chillingly, 

Near — and more near, 

Drearer^-and more drear, 
gpundeth the wild, weird, ding, dong, dell! 

Kow sinking lower, 
It tolleth slower ! 
I list, and 1 hear its sound no more. 

And now, methinks, I know that bell, 
Know it well — know its knell- - 
For I often heard it sound before. 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 205 

It is a bell — yet not a bell 

Whose sound may reach the ear! 
It tolls a knell — yet not a knell 

Which earthly sense may hear. 
In every soul a bell of dole 

Hangs ready to be tolled ; 
And from that bell a funeral knell 

Is often outward rolled ; 
And memory is the sexton grey 

Who tolls the dreary knell ; 
And nights like this he loves to sway 

And swing his mystic bell. 
'Tvvas that I heard and nothing more. 

This lonely Christmas eve ; 
Then, for the dead I'll meet no more. 

At Christmas let me grieve. 

Night, be a priest ! put your star-stole on 

And murmur a holy prayer 
Over each grave, and for every ouq 

Lying down lifeless there ! 
And over the dead stands the high priest night, 

Robed in his shadowy stole; 
And beside him I kneel as his acolyte, 

To respond to his prayer of dole. 



206 A OHBISTMAS CHANT, 

And list ! he begins 
That psalm fur sins, 
The first of the mournful seven; 
Plaintive and soft 
It rises aloft, 
Begging the mercy of Heaven 
To pity and forgive, 
For the sake of those who live, 
The dead who have died unshrivcn. 

Miserere! Miserere! 
Still your heart and hush your breath! 
The voices ( of despair and death 

Are shuddering through the psalm! 
Miserere! Miserere! 
Lift your hearts! the terror dies! 
Up in yonder sinless skies 

The psalms sound sweet and calm! 
Miserere! Miserere! 
Very low, in tender tones, 
The music pleads, the music moans, 
"I forgive, and have forgiven, 
The dead whose hearts were shriven.' 1 

De profundis ! De profundis ! 
Psalm of the dead and disconsolate! 



A CHRISTMAS CHxVNT. 207 

Thou liast sounded through a thousand years, 
And pealed above ten thousand biers ; 
And still, sad psalm, you mourn the fate 

Of sinners and of just, 
When their souls are going up to God, 

Their bodies down to dust. 
Dread hymn ! you wring the saddest tccrs 

Prom mortal eyes that fall, 
And your notes evoke the darkest fears 

That human hearts appall ! 
You sound o'er the good, you sound o'er the bad, 
And ever your music is sad, so sad, 
We seem to hear murmured in every tone, 
For the saintly a blessing; for sinners a curse. 
Psalm, sad psalm ! you must pray and grieve 
Over our dead on this Christmas eve. 
P)e profundis ! De profundis ! 
And the night chants the psalm o'er the mortal clay, 
And the spirits immortal from far away, 
To the music of hope sing this sweet-toned lay. 

You think of the dead on Christmas eve, 

Wherever the dead are sleeping, 
And we from a land where we may not grieve, 

Look tenderly down on your weeping. 



208 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

You think us fur, we are very near, 

From you and the earth though parted; 
We sing to-night to console and cheer 

The hearts of the broken-hearted. 
The earth watches over the lifeless clay 

Of each of its countless sleepers, 
And the sleepless spirits that passed away 

Watch oyer all earth's weepers. 
We shall meet again in a brighter land, 

Where farewell is never spoken ; 
We shall clasp each other in hand, 

And the clasp shall not be broken ; 
We shall meet again, in a bright, calm clim3, 

Where we'll never know a sadness, 
And our lives shall be filled, like a Christmas chime, 

With rapture and with gladness. 
The snows shall pass from our graves away, 

And you from the earth, remember; 
And the flowers of a bright, eternal May, 

Shall follow earth's December. 
When you think of us think not of the tomb 

Where you laid us down in sorrow; 
But look aloft, and beyond earth's gloom, 

And wait for the great to-morrow. 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 209 

And the Pontiff, night, with his star-stole on, 
Whisperelh soft and low: 
llequiescat ! Kequiescat ! 
Peace ! Peace ! to every one 
For whom we grieve this Christmas eve, 
In their graves beneath the snow. 

The stars in the far-off heaven 

Have long since struck eleven ! 

And hark! from temple and from tower, 

Sonndeth time's grandest midnight hour, 

Blessed by the Saviour's birth, 

And night puttoth off the sable stole, 

Symbol of sorrow and sign of dole, 

For one with many a starry gem, 

To honor the Babe of Bethlehem, 

Who comes to men the king of them, 

Yet comes without robe or diadem; 

And all turn towards the holy east, 

To hear the song of the Christmas feast. 

Four thousand years earth waited, 
Four thousand years men prayed* 

Four thousand years the nations sighed 
That their King so long delayed* 



210 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

The prophets told His coming, 
The saintly for Him sighed ; 

And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem 
Shone o'er them when they died. 

Their faces towards the future, 
They longed to hail the light 

That in the after centuries 

Would rise on Christmas night. 

But still the Saviour tarried, 
Within His father's home; 

And the nations wept and wondered why 
The promised had not come. 

At last earth's hope was granted, 
And God was a child of earth ; 

And a thousand angels chanted 
The lowly midnight birth. 

Ah! Bethlehdni was grandei* 
That hour than paradise ; 

And the light of earth that night eclipsed 
The splendors of the skies* 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 211 

Then let us sing the anthem 

The angels once did sing; 
Until the music of love and praise, 

O'er whole wide world will ring. 

Gloria in excelsis ! 

Sound the thrilling song; 
In excelsis Deo ! 

Eoll the hymn along. 
Gloria in excelsis I 

Let the heavens ring; 
In excelsis Deo ! 

Welcome, new-born king. 
Gloria in excelsis ! 

Over the sea and land, 
In excelsis Deo! 

Chant the anthem grand* 
Gloria in excelsis ! 

Let us all rejoice ; 
In excelsis Deo 1 

Lift each heart and voice; 
Gloria in efccelsis! 

Swell the hymii on high J 
tn excelsis Deo ! 

Sound it to the sky; 



212 A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

Gloria in excelsis! 

Sing it, sinful earth, 
In excelsis Deo ! 

For the Saviour's birth. 

Thus joyful and victoriously, 

Glad and ever so gloriously, 

High as the heavens, wide as the earth, 

Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth, 

Lo! the day is waking 

In the east afar; 
Dawn is faintly breaking, 

Sunk is evQry star. 

Christmas eve has vanished 

With its shadows grey ; 
All its griefs are banished 

By bright Christmas day; 

Joyful chimes are ringing 

O'er the land and seas, 
And there comes glad singing, 

Borne on every breeze. 



A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 213 

Little ones so merry 

Bed-clothes coyly lift, 
And, in such a hurry, 

Prattle, "Christmas gift I" 

Little heads so curly, 

Knowing Christmas laws, 
Peep out very early 

For old "Santa Clans;' 

Little eyes are laughing 

O'er their Christmas toys, 
Older ones are quaffing 

Clips of Christmas joys* 

Hearts are joyous, cheerful, 

Faces all are gay ; 
None are sad and tearful 

On bright Christmas day. 

Hearts are light and bounding, 

All from care are free ; 
Homes are all resounding 

With the sounds of glee. 



214: A CHRISTMAS CHANT. 

Feet with feet are meeting, 
Bent on pleasure's way; 

Souls to souls give greeting 
Warm on Christmas day. 

Gifts are kept a-going 
Fast from hand to hand ; 

Blessings are a-flowing 
Over every land. 

One vast wave of gladness 
Sweeps its world-wide way, 

Drowning every sadness 
On thi3 Christmas day. 

Merry, merry Christmas, 
Haste around the earth ; 

Merry, merry Christmas, 
Scatter smiles and mirth. 

Merry, merry Christmas, 
Be to one and all ! 

Merry, merry Christmas 
Enter hut and hall. 



A CHRISTMAS C II ANT, 215 

Merry, merry Christmas, 

Be to rich and poor J 
Merry, merry Christmas 

Stop at every dooj\ 

Merry, merry Christmas, 

Fill each heart with joy! 
Merry, merry Christmas 

To each girl and boy, 

Merry, merry Christmas, 

Better gifts than gold; 
Merry, merry Christmas 

To the young and old. 

Merry, merry Christmas, 

May the coming year 
Bring as merry a Christmas 

And as bright a cheer. 



«FAR AWAY. 




AB AWAY! what does it mean ? 
A change of heart with a change of place? 
•H* When footsteps pass from scene to scene, 
Fades soul from soul with face from face ? 
Are hearts the slaves or lords of space? 



"Far Away!" what does it mean? 
Does distance sever there from here ? 

Can leagues of land part hearts ? — I ween 
They cannot; for the trickling tear 
Says "Far Away" means "Far More Near," 



" Far Away ! " — the mournful miles 
Are but the mystery of space 

That blends our sighs but parts our smiles; 
For love will find a meeting place 
When face is farthest off from face. 

(21C) 



«FAB away." 217 

" Far x\way ! " we meet in dreams, 
As 'round the altar of the night 

Far-parted stars seiid down their gleams 
To meet in one embrace of light, 
And make the brow of darkness bright, 



''Far Away! " we meet in tears, 
Th^t tell the path of weary feet; 

And all the good-byes of the years 
But make the wanderer's welcome sweet, 
The rains of parted clouds thus meet, 

w Far Away ! " we meet in prayer, 
Y.ou know the temple and the shrine; 

J3efore it bows the brow of care, 
Upon it tapers dimly shine; 
Tis mercy's home, and yours and mine, 

"Far Away! " it falls between 
What is to-day and what has been ; 
But ah ! what is meets what is not, 
In every hour and every spot, 
Where lips breathe on "I have forgot." 



218 LISTEN. 

" Far Away ! " there is no far! 
Nor days nor distance e'er can bar 
My spirit from your spirits — nay, 
Farewell may waft a face away, 
But still with you my heart will stay. 



"Far Away! " I sing its song, 
But while the music moves along, 
From out each word an echo clear 
Falls trembling on my spirit's ear, 
"Far Away " means " Far More Near." 



LISTEN. 



^IfE borrow, 



"*t§§^ In our sorrow, 
•W* Fi om the sun of some to-morrow 
Half the light that gilds to-day; 
And the splendor 
Flashes tender 
O'er hope's footsteeps to defend her 
From the fears that haunt the way. 



WRECKED. 219 



We never 
Here can sever 
Any now from the forever 
Interclasping near and far ! 
For each minute 
Holds within it 
All the hours of the infinite, 
As one sky holds every star. 



WBECKED. 



H||HE winds are singing a death-knell 
^H^ 9 Out on the main to-night; 
■^ The sky droops low — and many a bark 
That sailed from harbors bright, 
Like many an one before, 
Shall enter port no more : 
And a wreck shall drift to some unknown shore 
Before to-morrow's light. 



'D 1 



The clouds are hanging a death-pall 

Over the sea to-night; 
The stars are veiled — and the hearts that sailed 

Away from harbors bright, 



220 WRECKED. 

Shall sob their last for their quiet home— 
And, sobbing, sink 'neath the whirling foam 
Before the morning's light. 

The waves are weaving a death shroud 

Out on the main to-night; 
Alas! the last prayer whispered there 
By lips with terror white ! 
Over the ridge of gloom 
Not a star will loom ! 
God help the souls that will meet their doom 
Before the dawn of light! 



The breeze is singing a joy song 

Over the sea to-day; 
The storm is dead and the waves are red 

With the flush of the morning's ray; 
And the sleepers sleep, but beyond the deep, 
The eyes that watch for the ships shall weep 

For the hearts they bore away* 



LBEAMING. 



||||HE moan of a wintry soul 
7^ Melted into a summer-song, 
•^ And the words, like the wavelet's roll, 
Moved murmuringly along. 

And the song flowed far and away, 
Like the voice of a half-sleeping rill — 

Each wave of it lit by a ray- 
But the sound was so soft and so still, 

And the tone was so gentle and low, 
None heard the song till it had passed; 

Till the echo that followed its flow 
Came dreamingly back from the past 

? l?was too late t— a song never returns 
That passes our pathway unheard; 

As dust lying dreaming in urns 
Is the song lying dead iii a word. 



(221) 



222 A THOUGHT. 

For the birds of the skies have a nest, 
And the winds have a home where they sleep, 

And songs, like our souls, need a rest, 
Where they murmur the while we may weep. 



But songs — like the birds o'er the foam, 
Where the storm-wind is beating their breast, 

Fly shoreward — and oft find a home 
In the shelter of words where they rest. 



A THOUGHT. 



«,J|lSEJEARTS that are great beat never loud, 
s 7|k s They muffle their music, when they come; 
** They hurry away from the thronging crowd 
With bended brows and lip3 half dumb, 



And the world looks on and mutters— "Proud. 2 
But when great hearts have passed away 

Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud* 
And in love they kneel around their clay* 



223 



Hearts that are great are always lone, 
They never will manifest their best; 

Their greatest greatness is unknown — 
Earth knows a little— God, the rest 



"YE8TEEBA YS. rr 



^iifllONE ! and they return no more, 
*7&? But they leave a light in the heart; 
** The murmur of waves that kiss a shore 
Will never, I know, depart. 



Gone! yet with us still they stay, 

And their memories throb through life; 
The music that hushes or stirs to-day, 

Is toned by their calm oi* strife. 

Gone! and yet they never go! 

We kneel at the shrine of Time \ 
*l*is a mystery no man may know, 

Nor tell in a poet's rhyma 



"TO-DAYS." 



^fi||BIEF while they last, 
T& 3 Long when they are gone; 
Ji They catch from the past 
A light to still live on. 



Brief! yet I ween, 
A day may be an age, 

The poet's pen may screen 
Heart-stories on one page* 

Brief! but in them, 
From eve back to morn. 

Borne find the gem, 
Many find the thorn* 

Brief! minutes pass 
Soft as flakes of snow, 

Shadows o'er the grass 
Could not swifter go. 



" TO-MORROWS." 225 

Brief! but along 

All the after-years 
To-day will be a song 

Of smiles or of tears. 



"TO-MORROWS." 



i^S&IOD knows all things — but we 
*j^f In darkness walk our ways. 
■*■ We wonder what will be, 

We ask the nights and days. 

Their lips are sealed; at times 
The bards, like prophets, see 

And rays rush o'er their rhyme3 
From suns of "days to be." 

They see To-morrow's heart, 
They read To-morrow's fac?, 

They grasp — is it by art ? — 
The far To-morrow's trace. 



226 "to-morrows." 

They see what is unseen, 
And hear what is unheard, 

And To-morrow's shade or sheen 
Rests on the poet's word. 

As seers see a star 

Beyond the brow of night, 

So poets scan the far, 
Prophetic when they write. 

They read a human face, 
As readers read their page, 

The while their thought will trace 
A life from youth to age. 

They have a mournful gift, 
Their verses, oft, are tears ; 

And sleepless eyes they lift 
To look ad own the years. 

To-morrows are to-days ! 

Is it not more than art ? 
When all life's winding ways 

Meet in the poet's heart 



" TO-MORROWS." 227 

The present meets the past, 

The future, too, is there ; 
The first enclasps the last, 

And never folds fore'er. 

It is not all a dream; 

A poet's thought is truth; 
The things that are — and seem 

From age far back to youth — 

He holds the tangled threads; 

His hands unravel them; 
He knows the hearts and heads 

For thorns, or diadem. 

Ask him, and he will see 

What your to-morrows are; 
Hell sing "What is to be" 

Beneath each sun and star. 

To-morrows! Dread unknown! 

What fates may they not bring? 
What is the chord ? the tone ? 

The key in which they sing? 



223 INEVITABLE, 

I see a thousand throngs, 
To-morrows for them wait; 

I hear a thousand songs 
Intoning eaph one's fate, 

And yours ? What will it be ? 

Hush ! song, and let nie pray ! 
God sees it all— ^1 see 

A long, lone, winding way; 

And more! no matter what! 

Crosses and crowns you wear : 
My song may be forgot, 

Cut Thou shalt not, in prayer. 



INEVITABLE. 



Ifjf HAT has been will be 

^ J ~^ 'Tis the under-law of life ; 
* 'Tis the song of sky and sea, 
To the key of calm and strife, 

For guard we as we may, 

What is to be will be, 
The dark must fold each day — 

The shore must gird each sea. 



INEVITABLE. 229 

All things are ruled by law; 

'Tis only in man's will 
You meet a feeble flaw; 

But fate is weaving still 

The web and woof of life, 
With hands that have no hearts, 

Thro' calmness and thro' strife, 
Despite all human arts. 

For fate is master here, 

He laughs at human wiles; 
He sceptres every tear, 

And fetters any smile. 

What is to be will be, 

We cannot help ourselves; 
The waves ask not the sea 

Where lies the shore that shelves, 

The law is coldest steel, 

We live beneath its sway, 
It cares not what we feel, 

And so pass night and day. 



230 INEVITABLE. 

And sometimes we may think 
This cannot — will not — be: 

Some waves must rise — some sink, 
Out on the midnight sea. 

And we are weak as waves 
That sink upon the shore; 

We go down into graves — 
Fate chants the nevermore; 



Cometh a voice! Kneel down! 

'Tis God's — there is no fate — 
He giveth the cross and crown, 

He opens the jeweled gate. 

He watcheth with such eyes 

As only mothers own — 
"Sweet Father in the skies! 
Ye call us to a throne." 

There is no fate — God's love 
Is law beneath each law, 

And law all laws above 
Fore'er, without a flaw. 



SOIZBOW AND TEE FLO WEBS. 

A MEMORIAL WREATH TO C. F. 



SORROW: 









a -£"$- 



fe GARLAND for a grave! Fair flowers that 
7|p bloom, 

** And only bloom to fade as fast away, 
We twine your leaflets 'round our Claudia's tomb, 
And with your dying beauty crown her clay* 

Ye are the tender types of life's decay; 

Your beauty, and your love-enfragranced breath, 
Prom out the hand of June, or heart of May, 

Fair flowers ! tell less of life and more of death. 

My name is Sorrow. I have knelt at graves, 
All o'er the weary world, for weary years ; 

1 kneel there still, and still my anguish laves 
The sleeping dust with moaning streams of tears. 

And yet, the while I garland graves as now, 
I bring fair wreaths to deck the place of woe; 

Whilst joy is crowning many a living brow, 
I crown the poor, frail dust that sleeps below. 

(231) 



232 SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 

She was a flower — fresh, fair and pure and frail; 

A lily in life's morning : God is sweet; 
He reached His hand, there rose a mother's wail; 

Her lily drooped ; 'ti3 blooming at His feet 

Where are the flowers to crown the faded flower? 

I want a garland for another grave; 
And who will bring them from the dell and bower, 

To crown what God hath taken, with what heaven 
gave ? 

As though ye heard my voice, ye heed my will ; 

Ye come with fairest flowers: give them to me, 
To crown our Claudia. Love leads memory still, 

To prove at graves love's immortality. 

wniTE rose : 

Her grave is not a grave ; it is a shrine, 

Where innocence reposes, 
Bright over which God's stars must love to shine, 

And w T here, when Winter closes, 
Fair Spring shall come, and in her garland twine, 
Just like this hand of mine, 

The "whitest of white roses. 






SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 233 

LAUREL : 

I found it on a mountain slope, 

The sunlight on its face ; 
It caught from clouds a smile of hope 

That brightened all the placo. 

They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, 

And crown the chieftain's head; 
But the laurel's leaves love best to grace 

The garland of the dead. 

wild tlower: 

I would not live in a garden, 

But far from the haunts of men; 
Nature herself was my warden ; 

I lived in a lone little glen. 
A wild flower out of the wildwood, 

Too wild for even a name; 
As strange and as simple as childhood, 

And wayward, yet sweet all the same. 

WILLOW BRANCH : 

To sorrow's own sweet crown, 

With simple grace, 
The weeping-willow bends her branches dowil 



234 BORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 

Just like a mother s arm, 
To shield from harm, 
The dead within their resting place. 

lily : 

The angel flower of all the flowers : 

Its sister flowers, 

In all the bowers 
Worship the lily, for it brings, 

Wherever it blooms, 

On shrines or tombs, 
A dream surpassing earthly sense 
Of heaven's own stainless innocence* 

VIOLET LEAVES* 

It is too late for violets, 

I only bring their leaves : 
I looked in vain for mignonettes 

To grace the crown grief weaves ; 
For queenly May, upon her way, 
Kobs half the bowers 
Of all their flowers, 
And leaves but leaves to June. 
Ah ! beauty fades so soon \ 



SORROW AND THE FLOWERS* 232 

And the valley grows lonely in spite of the sun 

For flowrets are fading fast, 
Leaves for a grave, leaves for a garland, 
Leaves for a little flower. the far land. 

u Forge t-me not! " The sad word 
On lips, like shadows falling on a ril 
Flowing away, 
By night, by day, 
Flowing away forever. 
The mountain whence the river 

Murmurs to it, "forget me not;" 
The little stream run3 on and sings 
On to the sea, and every spot 
It passes by 
Breathes forth a sigh, 
"Forget me not! " "forget me not ! " 

A OAKLAND: 

I bring this for her mother; ah! who kll< 
The lonely deeps within a mother's heart? 

oath the wildest wave of woe that flo 
Above, around her, when her children part, 



236 SORROW AND THE FLOWERS. 

There is a sorrow, silent, dark, and lone ; 
It sheds no tears, it never maketh moan. 

Whene'er a child dies from a mother s arms, 
A grave is dug within the mother's heart : 
She watches it alone; no words of art 
Can tell the story of her vigils there. 
This garland fading even while 'tis fair, 
It is a mother's memory of a grave, 
When God hath taken her whom heaven gave. 

sotcrow : 

Farewell ! I go to crown the dead ; 

Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day, 
For they, whose hearts so faithful, love 

The lonely grave — the very clay; 
They crown themselves with richer gems 
Than flash in royal diadems* 



HOPE. 



SBHINE eyes are dim: 

S^R 3 A mist hath gathered there 

^ Around their rim 

Float many clouds of care, 

And there is sorrow every — everywhere. 

But there is God, 

Every— every where ; 
Beneath His rod, 

Kneel thou, adown in prayer. 

For grief is God's own kiss, 

Upon a soul. 
Look up! the sun of bliss 

Will shine where storm-clouds roll. 

Yes, weeper, weep ! 

'Twill not be evermore ; 
I know the darkest deep 

Hath e'en the brightest shore. 

CB7) 



238 FAKEWELLS. 

So tired ! so tired ! 

A cry of half despair; 
Look ! at your side — 

And see Who standeth there! 

Your Father! Hush! 

A heart beats in His breast; 
Now rise and rush 

Into His arms — and rest. 



FAREWELLS! 



^iw|HEY are so sad to say: no poems tells 
SipThe agony of hearts that dwells 
•^ In lone and last farewells. 



They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chill 
To summer's roses, and to summer's rill; 
And yet we breathe them still, 

For pure as altar-lights hearts pass away ; 
Hearts! we said to them, "stay with us! stay!" 
And they said, sighing as they said it, "nay." 



80NG OF THE RIVER. 239 

The sunniest days are shortest; darkness tells 
The starless story of the night that dwells 
In lone and last farewells. 

Two faces meet here, there, or anywhere: 

Each wears the thoughts the other face may wear ; 

Their hearts may break, breathing, "farewell fore'er," 



SONG OF TEE RIVER, 






wlfiP ^VER went singing, adown to the sea, 
°S|fof A-singing— low — singing — 
-"• And the dim rippling river said softly to me, 
"I'm bringing, a-bringing — 

While floating . along — 
- A beautiful song 
To the shores that are white where the waves are so 

weary, 
To the beach that is burdened with wrecks that are 
dreary. 

A song sweet and calm 
As the peacefulest psalm; 



240 BOKG OF THE BIVEK. 

And the shore that was sad 
Will be grateful and glad, 
And the weariest wave from its dreariest dream 
Will wake to the sound of the song of the stream : . 
And the tempests shall cease 
And there shall be peace." 
From the fairest of fountains 
And farthest of mountains, 
From the stillness of snow 
Came the stream in its flow. 

Down the slopes where the rocks are gray, 

Thro' the vales where the flowers are fair — 
Where the sunlight flashed — where the shadows lay 
Like stories that cloud a face of care, 
The river ran on — and on — and on— 
Day and night, and night and day; 
Going and going, and never gone, 

Longing to flow to the " far away,". 
Staying and staying, and never still ; 
Going and staying, as if one will 
Said " beautiful river, go to the sea," 
And another will whispered, " stay with me : * 
And the river made answer, soft and low — 
"I go and stay" — "I stay and go." 



DREAMLAND. 241 

But wh^t is the song, I said, at last? 

To the passing river that never passed ; 

And $ white, white wave whispered, " list to me, 

I'm $ note in the song for the beautiful sea, 
A gong whose grand accents no earth-din may sever, 
And the river flows on in the same mystic key 
That blends in one chord the 'forever and never,'" 

December 15 111, 1878. 



DREAMLAND. 



|VEK the silent sea of sleep, 
*7&? Far away ! far away ! 
«^ Over a strange and starlit deep, 

AY here the beautiful shadows sway; 
Dim in the dark, 
Glideth a bark, 
Where never the waves of a tempest roll- 
Bearing the very "soul of the soul," 
Alone, all alone — 
Far away — far away, 

To shores all unknown 
In the wakings of the day; 



24:2 LINES. 

To the lovely land of dreams, 
Where what is meets with what seems 
Brightly dim; dimly bright, 
Where the suns meet stars at night, 
Where the darkness meets the light 
Heart to heart, face to face, 
In an infinite embrace. 



Mornings break, 
And we wake, 
And we wonder where we went 
In the bark 
Thro' the dark, 
But our wonder is mis-spent; 
For no day can cast a light 
On the dreamings of the night. 



LINES. 



SOMETIMES, from the far-away, 
Sff^ 3 Wing a little thought to me; 
•^ In the night or in the day, 
It will give a rest to me. 



A SONG. 243 

I have praise of many here, 
And the world gives me renown ; 

Let it go — give me one tear, 
'Twill be a jewel in my crown* 

What care I for earthly fame ? 

How I shrink from all its glare ! 
I would rather that my name 

Would be shrined in some one's prayer. 

Many hearts are all too much* 

Or too little in their praise ; 
I would rather feel the touch 

Of one prayer that thrills all days. 



A SONG. 

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 



i^IIKtJRE faced page ! waiting so long 

^fe i To welcome my muse and me; 
^ Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song 
That floats from my spirit to thee. 



214 A S(XN T G. 

And song! sound soft as the streamlet sings, 

And sweet as the Summer's birds, 
And pure and bright and white be the wings 

That will waft thee into words. 

Yea ! fly as the sea-birds fly oyer the sea 

To rest on the far off beach, 
And breath forth the message I trust to thee, 

Tear toned on the shores of speech. 

But ere you go, dip your snowy wing 

In a wave of my spirit's deep — 
In the wave that is purest — then haste and bring 

A song to the hearts that weep. 

Oh ! bring it, and sing it — its notes are tears ; 

Its octaves, the octaves of grief; 
Who knows but its tones in the far off year3 

May bring to the lone heart relief? 

Yea ! bring it, and sing it— a worded moan 
That sweeps thro' the minors of woe, 

With mystical meanings in every tone, 
And sounds like the sea's lone flow. 



A SONG. 2U 

And the thoughts take the wings of words, and float 

Out of my spirit to thee; 
But the song dies away into only one note, 

And sounds but in only one key. 

And the note! 'tis the wail of the weariest wave 

That sobs on the loneliest shore ; 
And the key! never mind! it comes out of a grave; 

And the chord! — 'tis a sad "nevermore." 

And just like the wavelet that moans on the beach, 

And, sighing, sinks back to the sea, 
So my fjong— it just touches the rude shores of speech, 

And its music melts back into me. 

Yea! song! shrink back to my spirit's lone deep* 

Let others hear only thy moan— ■• 
But I— I forever shall hear the grand sweep 

Of thy mighty and tear-burdened tone* 

Sweep on! mighty song— sound down in my heart 

As a storm sounding under a sea; 
Not a sound of thy music shall pass into arfy 

Nor a note of it float out from me. 



PARTING. 



^3L 

|§HAEEWELL! that word has broken hearts 

Sp^ And blinded eyes with tears ; 

•^ Farewell! one stays, and one departs; 

Between them roll the years. 

No wonder why who Gay it think-* 

Farewell! he may fare ill ; 
No wonder that their spirits sink 

And all their hopes grow chill. 

Good-bye! that word makes faces pale 

And fills the soul With fears; 
Good-bye! two words that wing a wail 

Which flutters down the years. 

No wonder they who say it feel 

Such pangs for those who go; 
Good-bye they wish the parted weal, 

But ah! they may meet woe. 






BT. STEPHEN. 247 

Adieu! such is the word for us, 
"lis more than word — 'tis prayer ; 

They do not part, who do part thus ; 
For God is everywhere. 



ST. STEPHEN. 



IplIRST champion of the Crucified ! 

^Ix 9 Who, when the fight began 
* Between the Church and worldly pride 
So nobly fought, so nobly died, 

The foremost in the van ; 
While rallied to your valiant sido 
The red-robed martyr-band ; 
To-night with glad and high acclaim 
We venerate thy saintly name; 
Accept, St. Stephen, to thy praise 
And glory, these our lowly lays. 

The chosen twelve with chrismed hand 

And burning zeal within* 
Led forth their small yet fearless band 
On Pentecost, and took their stand 

Against the world and sin— 



248 ST. STEPHEN. 

While rang aloud the battle-cry : 
"The hated Christians all must die! 
As died the Nazarine before, 
The God they believe in and adore." 



Yet Stephen's heart quailed not with Tear 

At persecution's cry, 
But loving as he did, the cause 
Of Jesus and His faith and laws, 

Prepared himself to die; 
He faced his foes with burning zeal, 
Such zeal as only saints can feel ; 
He told them how the Lord had stood 
Within their midst, so great and good, 
How He had through Judea trod, 
How wonders marked his way— the Got!, 
How he had cured the blind, the lame, 
The deaf, the palsied and the maimed, 
And how with awful, wondrous might 
lie raised the dead to life and light, 
And how His people knew Him not — 
Had eyes and still had seen Him not, 
Had ears and still had heard him not, 
Had hearts and comprehended not. 



ST. STEPHEN. 249 

Then said he, pointing to the right 
Where darkly rose Golgotha's hight, 
" There have ye slain the Holy One, 
Your Saviour and God's only Son." 

They gnashed their teeth in raging ire, 

Those dark and cruel men, 
They vowed a vengeance deep and dire 

Against Saint Stephen then. 
Yet he was calm, a radiant light 

Around his forehead gleamed ; 
He raised his eyes, a wondrous sight 
He saw, so grand it was and bright, 
His soul Avas filled with such delight 

That he an angel seemed. 
Then spoke the Saint, "A vision grand 

Bursts on me from above: 
The doors of heaven open stand, 
And at the Father's own right hand 

I see the Lord I love." 

"Away with him " the rabble cry 
With swelling rage and hate, 
But Stephen still gazed on the sky, 
His heart was with his Lord on high, 
He heeded not his fate. 



250 ST. STEPHEN. 

The gathering crowd in fury wild 

Rush on the raptured Saint, 
And seize their victim mute and mild, 
Who like his Master though reviled 
Still uttered no complaint. 

With angry shouts they rend the air; 

They drag him to the city gate ; 
They bind his hands and feet, and there, 
While whispered he for them a prayer, 

The Martyr meets his fate* 

First fearless witness to his belief 

In Jesus Crucified, 
The red-robed Martyr's noble chief, 

Thus for his Master died. 
And to the end of time his name 
Our Holy Church shall e'er proclaim, 
And with a mother's pride shall tell 
How her great protoolartyr fell. 



A FLOWERS SONG. 



CpjSJjTAB! Star! why do3t thou shine 
S%\ Each night upon my brow? 
H Why dost thou make me dream the dreams 
That I am dreaming now ? 

Star! Star! thy home is high — 

I am of humble birth ; 
Thy feet walk shining o'er the sky, 

Mine, only on the earth. 

Star! Star! why make me dream ? 

My dreams are all untrue ; 
And why is sorrow dark for me 

And heaven bright for you ? 

Star! Star! oh! hide thy ray, 

And take it off my face; 
Within my lowly home I stay, 

Thou, in thy lofty place. 



252 the stab's song. 

Star ! Star ! and still I dream, 
Along thy light afar 

I seem to soar until I seem 
To be, like you, a star. 



TEE STARS SONQ, 



^|P|LOWEE! Flower! why repine? 
^r 9 God knows each creature's place; 
& He hides within me when I shine, 
And your leaves hide His face. 

And you are near as I to Him, 

And you reveal as much 
Of that eternal soundless hymn 

Man's words may never touch, 

Gcd sings to man through all my rays 
That wreathe the brow of night, 

And walks with me thro' all my ways — 
The everlasting light. 



PEATH OF THE FLOWER. 253 

Flower ! Flower ! why repine ? 

He chose on lowly earth, 
And not in heaven where I shine, 

His Bethlehem and birth, 



Flower ! Flower ! I see Him pass 
Each hour of night and day, 

Down to an altar and a Mass 
Go thou ! and fade away. 

Fade away upon His shrine ! 

Thy light is brighter far 
Than all the light wherewith I shine 

In heaven, as a star. 



DEATH OF THE FLO WEB, 



g LOVE my mother, the wildwood, 
75^ I sleep upon her breast; 
** A day or two of childhood, 
And then I sink to rest. 



254 DEATH OF THE FLOWER 

I had once a lovely sister — 
She was cradled by my side ; 

But one Summer day I missed her— 
She had gone to deck a bride. 

And I had another sister, 

With cheeks all bright with bloom; 
And another morn I missed her— 

She had gone to wreathe a tomb. 

And they told me they had whithered, 
On the bride's brow and the grave; 

Half an hour, and all their fragrance 
Pied away, which heaven gave. 

Two sweet-faced girls came walking 
Thro' my lonely home one day, 

And I overheard them talking 
Of an altar on their way. 

They were culling flowers around me, 
And I said a little prayer 

To go with them— and they found' me- 
And upon an altar fair, 



SINGING-BIRD. 255 



Where the Eucharist was lying 
On its mystical death-bed, 

I felt myself a dying, 

While the Mass was being said. 

But I lived a little longer, 

And I prayed there all the day, 

Till the evening Benediction, 
When my poor life passed away. 



SINGING-BIRD. 



IN the valley of my life 
^ Sings a "Singing-Bird," 
•^ And its voice thro' calm and srife 
Is sweetly heard. 

In the day and thro' the night 

Sound the notes, 
And its song thro' dark and bright 

Ever floats. 



256 SINGING BIKD. 

Other warblers cease to sing, 

Arid their voices rest, 
And they fold their weary wing 

In their quiet nest. 

But my Singing-Bird still sings 

Without a cease; 
And each song it murmurs brings 

My spirit peace 

11 Singing-Bird!" oh! "Singing-Bird! 8 

No one knows, 
When your holy songs are heard, 
What repose 

Fills my life and soothes my heart; 

But I fear 
The day — thy songs, if we must part, 

I'll never hear. 



But " Singing-Bird ! " ah ! " Singing-Bird ! * 

Should this e'er be, 
The dreams of all thy songs I heard 

Shall sing for me. 






NOW. 



Sometimes a single hour 

Rings thro' a long life-time. 



& As from a temple tower 

There often falls a chime 
From blessed bells, that seems 
To fdld in Heaven's dreams 

Our spirits round a shrine ; 

Hath such an. hour been thine ? 

Sometimes — who knoweth why ? 

One minute holds a power 

That shadows eve'ry hour, 
Dialed in life's sky. 

A cloud that is a speck 
When seen from far away 

May be a storm, and wreck 
The joys of every day. 

Sometimes — it seems not mtichj 
'Tis scarcely felt at all— 

Grace gives a gentle touch 
To hearts for once and all, 



(25f) 



253 now. 



Which in the spirit's strife 
May all unnoticed be. 

And yet it rules a life : 
Hath this e'er come to thee ? 



Sometimes one little word, 

Whispered sweet and fleet, 
That scarcely can be heard 

Our ears will sudden meet. 
And all life's hours along 

That whisper may vibrate, 
And like a wizard's song, 

Decide our ev'ry fate* 



Sometimes a sudden look, 

That falleth from some fac6, 
Will steal into each nook 

Of life, and leave its traco ; 
To haunt us to the last, 

And sway our ev'ry will 
Thro' all the days to be, 

For goodness or for ill ; 
Hath this e'er come to thee ? 



M * * * 259 

Sometimes one minute folds 

The hearts of all the years, 
Just like the heart that holds 

The Infinite in tears; 
There be such thing as this—* 

Who knoweth why, or how ? 
A life of woe or bliss 

Hangs on some little now* 



M 



H 



HEN" I am dead, and all will soon forget 
My words, and face, and ways — 
•"■ I, somehow, think I'll walk be.:ide thee yet 
Adown thy after days. 

I die first, and you will see my grave ; 

But child I you must Hot cry; 
For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave 

O'er you from yonder sky. 

You mtlst not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears 

Tho 1 sleeping in a tomb : 
My rest would not be rest, if in your years 

There floated clouds of gloonl. 



260 m * * * 

For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine, 

And dearer it became, 
Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine 

Thy name — my child! thy name. 

You came to me in girlhood pure and fair, 

And in your soul — and face — 
I saw a likeness to another there 

In every trace and grace. 

You came to me in girlhood — and you brought 

An image back to me ; 
No matter what — or whose — I often sought 

Another's soul in thee. 

Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became — 

Gentle though I be — 
Gentler than ever when I called thy name, 

Gentlest to thee ? 

You came to me in girlhood ; as your guide 

I watched your spirit's ways ; 
We walked God's holy valleys side by side* 

And so went on the days. 



m * * * 261 

And so went on the years — 'tis five and more j 

Your soul is fairer now ; 
A light as of a sunset on a shore 

Is falling on my brow- 
Is falling, soon to fade ; when I am dead 

Think this, my child, of me : 
I never said — I never could have said- 
Ungentle words to thee. 

I treated you as I would treat a flower, 

I watched you with such care ; 
And from my lips God heard in many an hour 

Your name in many a prayer. 

I watched the flower's growth; so fair it grew, 

On not a leaf a stain; 
Your soul to purest thoughts so sweetly true; 

I did not watch in vain. 

I guide you still— in my steps still you tread; 

Towards God these ways are set; 
T'vvill soon be over: child! when I am dead 

I'll watch and guide you yet. 



262 m * * *- 

r Tis better far that I should go before, 

And you awhile should stay; 
But I will wait upon the golden shore 

To meet my child some day. 

When I am dead ; in some lone after time, 

If crosses come to thee, 
You'll think— remembering this simple rhyme — 

" He holds a crown for me," 

I guide you here — I go before you there ; 

But here or there— I know — 
Whether the roses, or the thorny crown you wear, 

I'll watch where'er you go, 

And wait until you come; when I am dead 
Think, sometimes, child, of this : 

You must not weep — follow where I led, 
I wait for you in bliss. 






GOD IN THE NIGHT, 



„|1mEEP in the dark I hear the feet of God: 

* Sffv'He walks the world ; He puts His holy hand 

•"• On every sleeper — only puts his hand^ 
Within it benedictions for each one- 
Then passes on; but ah! whene'er He meets 
A watcher waiting for Him, He is glad, 
(Does God, like man, feel lonely in the dark ?) 
He rests His hand upon the watcher's brow— » 
But more than that, He leaves His very breath 
Upon the watcher's soul; and more than this, 
He stays for holy hours where watchers pray; 
And more than that, He ofttimes lifts the veils 
That hide the visions of the world unseen. 
The brightest sanctities of highest souls 
Have blossomed into beauty in the dark. 
How extremes meet! the very darkest crimes 
That blight the souls of men are strangely born 
Beneath the shadows of the holy night. 



264 GOD IN THE NIGHT. 

Deep in the dark I hear His holy feet — 

Around Him rustle archangelic wings; 

He lingers by the temple where His Christ 

Is watching in His Eucharistic sleep; 

And where poor hearts in sorrow cannot rest, 

He lingers there to soothe their weariness. 

Where mothers weep above the dying child, 

He stays to bless the mother's bitter tears, 

And consecrates the cradle of her child, 

Which is to her her spirit's awful cross. 

He shudders past the haunts of sin — yet leaves 

E'er there a mercy for the wayward hearts. 

Still as a shadow through the night He moves, 

With hands all full of blessings, and with heart 

All full of everlasting love; ah ! me, 

How God does love this poor and sinful world ! 

The stars behold Him as He passes on, 
And arch His path of mercy with their rays; 
The stars are grateful — He gave them their light, 
And now they give Him back the light He gave. 
The shadows tremble in adoring awe ; 
They feel His presence and they know His face. 
The shadows, too, are grateful — could they pray, 
How they would flower all His way with prayers ! 



poets. 265 

The sleeping trees wake up from all their dreams— 

Werp their leaves lips, ah ! me, how they would sing 

A grand Magnificat, as His Mary sang. 

The lowly grasses and the fair-faced flowers 

Watch their Creator as He passes on, 

Anc] mourn they have no hearts to love their God, 

And sigh they have no souls to be beloved. 

Man — only man — the image of his Go I — 

Let's God pass by when He walks forth at night, 



POETS, 



|ll|OETS are strange — not always understood 
*}>$*&? By many is their gift, 
^ Which is for evil or for mighty good— 
To lower or to lift. 



Upon their spirits there hath como a breath; 

Who reads their verse 
Will rise to higher life, or taste of death 

In blessing or in curse. 



266 



POETS. 



The Poet is great Nature's own high priest, 

Ordained from very birth 
To keep for hearts an everlasting feast — 

To bless or curse the earth. 

They cannot help but sing; they know not why 

Their thoughts rush into song, 
And float above the world, beneath the sky, 

For right or for the wrong. 

They are like angels — but some angels fell, 
While some did keep their place; 

Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell, 
And God's or Satan's face 

Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face, 

In blessing or in blight, 
And leaves upon your soul a grace or traco 

Of sunlight or of night. 



They move along life's uttermost extremes, 

Unlike all other men; 
And in their spirits' depths sleep strangest dreams, 

Like shadows in a glen. 



poets. 267 

They all are dreamers; in the clay and night 

Ever across their souls 
The wondrous mystery of the dark or bright 

In mystic rhythm rolls. 

They live within themselves — they may not tell 

What lie tk deepest there; 
Within their breast a heaven or a hell* 

Joy or tormenting care. 

They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways!, 

No matter what they seem ; 
The stars and sunlight of their nights and days 

Move over them in dream. 

They breathe it forth— their very spirits' breath— 

To bless the world or blight ; 
To bring to men a higher life or death; 

To give them light or night. 

The words of some command the world's acclaim, 

And never pass away, 
While others' words receive no palm from fame, 

And live but for a day. 



268 A LEGEND. 

But, live or die, their words leave their impress 

Fore'er or for an hour, 
And mark men's souls — some more and some the less— 

With good's or evil's power. 



A LEGEND. 

|p|iE walked alone beside the lonely sea, 
^|&The slanting sunbeams fell upon His face, 
™ His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands 
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer. 
And He was, oh ! so beautiful and fair ! 
Brown sandals on His feet — His face downcast, 
As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns. 
His face looked like His mothers, only her's 
Had not those strange serenities and stirs 
That paled or flushed His olive checks and brow. 
He wore the seamless robe His mother made— 
And as He gathered it about His breast, 
The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice 
Murmur, " Oh ! My mother "—the white sands felt 
The touch of tender tears He wept the while. 






A LEGEND. 269 

He walked beside the sea; He took His sandals off 
To bathe His weary feet in the pure cool wave — 
For He had walked across the desert sands 
All day long— and as He bathed His feet 
He murmured to Himself, "Three years! three years! 
And then, poor feet, the cruel nails will come 
And make yoii bleed; but ah ! that blood shall laye 
All weary feet on all their thorny ways." 
" Three years ! three years! " He murmured still again, 
"Ah! would it were to-morrow, but a will— 
My Father's will — biddeth me bide that time.'* 
A little fisher-boy came up the shore 
And saw Him— and, nor bold, nor shy, 
Approached, but when he saw the weary fac3, 
Said mournfully to Him, " You look a-tired." 
He placed His hand upon the boy's brown brow 
Caressingly and blessingly — and said, 
" I am so tired to wait/' The boy spake not. 
Sudden, a sea-bird, driven by a storm 
That had been sweeping on the farther shore, 
Came fluttering towards Him, and, panting, fell 
At His feet and died; and then the boy said, 
" Poor little bird," in such a piteous tone, 
lie took the bird and laid it in His hand, 



270 THOUGHTS. 

And breathed on it —when to his amaze 
The little fisher-boy beheld the bird 
Flutter a moment and then fly aloft — 
Its little life returned; and then he gazed 
With look intensest on the wondrous face 
(Ah ! it was beautiful and fair) — and said, 

" Thou art so sweet I wish Thou wert my God." 
lie leaned down towards the boy and softly said, 

" I am thy Christ." The day they followed Him, 
With cross upon His shoulders, to His death, 
Within the shadow of a shearing rock 
That little boy knelt down, and there adored, 
While others cursed, the thorn-crowned Crucified. 



TI10 UGHT8> 



:&llfY sound of name, and touch of hand; 

§i|| 

*j^ Thro' ears that hear, and eyes that see, 
•^ We know each other in this land$ 

How little must that knowledge be ? 

How souls are all the tinie alone, 

No spirit can another reach ; 
They hide aWay in realms Unknown, 

Like waves that nerer touch a beach. 



THOUGHTS. 271 

We never know each other here, 

No soul can here another see — 
To know, we need a light as clear 

As that which fills eternity. 

For here we walk by human light, 
But there the light of God is ours; 

Each day, on earth, is but a night; 
Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours. 

I call you thus — you call me thus — 

Our mortal is the very bar 
That parts forever each of us, 

As skies, on high, part star from star* 

A name is nothing but a name 

For that which, else, would nameless be; 
Until our souls, in rapture, claim 

Full knowledge in eternity. 



L1FE8. 



«iiH»HE world is sweet, and fair, and bright, 



Urn— 

£ 7|fc , And joy aboundeth everywhere, 

■"• The glorious stars crown every night, 

And thro 5 the dark of ev'ry care 

Above us shineth heaven's light, 



If from the cradle to the grave 
We reckon all our days and hours 

\7e, sure will find they give and gave 

Much less of thorns and more of flowers ; 

And tho' some tears must ever lave 

The path we tread, upon them all 
The light of smiles forever lies, 

As o'er the rains, from clouds that fall, 
The sun shines sweeter in the skies* 

Life holdeth more of sweet than gall 

(273) 



c. s. a. 273 

For ey'ry one : no matter who — 
Or what their lot — or high or low; 

All hearts have clouds — but heaven's blue 
"Wraps robes of bright around each woe ; 

And this is truest of the true: 

That joy is stronger here than grief, 
Fills more of life, far more of years, 

And makes the reign of sorrow brief; 
Gives more of smiles for less of tears. 

Joy is life's tree — grief but its leaf. 



a s. a. 



|0 we weep for the heroes who died for us, 
Who living were true and tried for us, 
*** And dying sleep side by side for us; 
The Martyr-band 
That hallowed our land 
With the blood they shed in a tide for us? 

Ah ! fearless on many a day for us 
They stood in front of the fray for u?, 
And held the foeman at bay for us ; 



274 c. s. a. 

And tears should fall 
Fore'er o'er all 
Who fell while wearing the Gray for us. 

How many a glorious name for us, 

How many a story of fame for us 

They left: Would it not be a blame for us 

If their memories part 

From our land and heart, 
And a wrong to them, and shame for us ? 

No, no, no, they were brave for us, 

And bright were the lives they gave for us; 

The land they struggled to save for us 

Will not forget 

Its warriors yet 
Who sleep in so many a grave for us. 

On many and many a plain for us 

Their blood poured down all in vain for us, 

Eed, rich and pure, like a rain for us; 

They bleed — we weep, 

We live— they sleep, 
"All lost/' the only refrain for us. 



THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 27l 

But their memories e'er shall remain for us, 

And their names, bright nam:s, without stain for us; 

The glory they won shall not wane for us, 

In legend and lay 

Our heroes in Gray 
Shall forever live over again for us. 



TILE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN 



|S|ATUEE is but the outward vestibule 

'^f'K 5 Which God has placed before an unseen shrine ; 

^ The visible is but a fair, bright val§ 
That winds around the great Invisible; 
The Finite— it is nothing but a smile 
That flashes from the face of Infinite; 
A smile with shadows on it— and 'tis sad 
Men bask beneath the smile but oft forget 
The loving Face that very smile conceals. 
The Changeable is but the broidered robe 
Enwrapped about the great Unchangeable; 
The Audible is but an echo faint 
Low whispared from the far Inaudible; 



270 THE BEEN AND THE UMSEKN. 

This earth is but an humble acolyte 
A kneeling on the lowest ^ltaisstep 
Of this cre^tio&'s temple, at the Mass 
Of Supernature, just to ring the bell 
AtSanctus! Sanotus! Sanctus! while the world 
Prepares its l^rt for qonsecration's hour, 

Nature is but the ever-rustling veil 

Which God is wearing, like the Carmelite 

Who hides her face behind her virgii}?veU 

To keep it all unseen from mortal eyes, 

Yet by her vigils and her holy prayers, 

And ceaseless sacrifices night and day, 

Shields souls from sin — and many hearts from harm, 

God hides in nature as a thought doth hide 
In humbly-sounding words; and as the thought 
Beats through the lowly word like pulse of heart 
That givefch life and keepeth life alive, 
60 God, thro' nature, works on cv'ry soul ; 
For nature is His word so strangely writ 
In heav'n, in all the letters of the stars, 
Beneath the stars in alphabets of clouds, 
And on the seas in syllables of waves, 
And in the earth* on all the leaves of flowers, 



THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 277 

And on the grasses and the stately trees, 
And on the rivers and the mournful rocks 
The word is clearly written ; blest are they 
Who read the word aright—and understand. 

For God is everywhere — and He doth find 
In every atom which His hand hath made 
A shrine to hide His presence, and reveal 
His name, love, power, to those who kneel 
In holy faith upon this bright below 
And lift their eyes, thro' all this mystery, 
To catch the vision of the great beyond. 

Yea! nature is His shadow, and how bright 
Must that face be which such a shadow casts ? 
We walk within it, for u we live and move 
And have our being " in His ev'rywhere, 
Why is God shy? Why doth He hide Himself? 
The tiniest grain of sand on ocean's shore 
En-temples Him—the fragrance of the rose 
Folds Him around as blessed incense folds 
The altars of His Christ j yofc some will walk 
Along the temple's wondrous vestibule 
And look on and admire — yet enter not 
To find within the Presence, and the Light 
Which sheds its rays on all that is without. 



278 PASSING AWAY. 

And nature is His voice ; who list may hear 
His name low-murmured every — everywhere. 
In song of birds, in rustle of the flowers, 
In swaying of the trees, and on the seas 
The blue lips of the wavelets tell the ships 
That come and go, His holy, holy name. 
The winds, or still or stormy, breathe the same ; 
And some have ears and yet they will not hear 
The soundless voice re-echoed everywhere ; 
And some have hearts that never are enthrilled 
By all the grand Hossannahs nature sings. 
List! Sanctus! Sanctus! Sanclus! without pause 
Sounds sweetly out of all creation's heart, 
That hearts with power to love may echo ba?k 
Their Sanctus ! Sanctus ! Sanctus ! to the hymn. 



PASSING AWAY. 



AWmlFE'S Vesper-bells are ringing 
Sff? I n the temple of my heart, 
•^ And yon sunset, sure, is singing 
" Nunc Dimittis,"— " Now depart ! " 



PASSING AWAY. 279 

Ah ! the eye is golden-clouded, 

But to-morrow's sun shall shine 
On this weary body shrouded; 

But my soul doth not repine, 

"Let me see the sun descending, 

I will see his light no more, 
For my life, this eye, is ending ; 

And to-morrow on the shore 
That is fair, and white, and golden, 

I will meet my God; and ye 
Will forget not all the olden 

Happy hours ye spent with me. 

" I am glad that I am going ; 

What a strange and sweet delight 
Is thro' all my being flowing 

When I know that, sure, to-night 
I will pass from earth and meet Him 

Whom I loved thro' all the years, 
Who will crown me when I greet Him, 

And will kiss away my tears. 

"My last sun ! haste ! hurry Westward ! 
In the dark of this to-night 
My poor soul that hastens rest-ward 
'With the Lamb' will find the light; 



280 THE PILGRIM. 

Death is coming — and I hear him, 
Soft and stealthy cometh he, 

But I do not believe I fear him, 
God is now so close to me." 

♦ *£ Jfc jfc sK 

Pell the daylight's fading glimmer 

On a face so wan, and white ; 
Brighter was his soul, while dimmer 

Grew the shadows of the night; 
And he died— and God w T as near him ; 

I knelt by him to forgive ; 
And I sometimes seem to hear him 

Whisper — " Live as I did live." 



THE PILGRIM. 

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND FOB CHILDREN. 



%M 



|HE shades of night were brooding 
O'er the sea, the earth, the sky; 



■^ The passing winds were wailing 
In a low, unearthly sigh ; 
The darkness gathered deeper 

For no starry light was shed, 

And silence reigned, unbroken, 

As the silence of the dead. 



THE PILGRIM. 281 

The wintry clouds were hanging 

From the starless sky so low, 
Whib 'neath them earth lay folded 

In a winding shroud of snow. 
'Twas cold, 'twas dark, 'twas dreary, 

And the blast that swept along 
The mountains, hoarsely murmered 

A fierce, discordant song. 

And mortal men were resting 

From the turmoil of the day, 
And broken hearts were dreaming 

Of the friends long passed away, 
And saintly men were keeping 

Their vigils through the night, 
While angel spirits hovered near 

Around their lonely light. 

And wicked men were sinning 

In the midnight banquet halls, 
Forgetful of that sentenced traced 

On proud Belshazzar's walls. 
On that night, so dark and dismal, 

tlnillumed by faintest ray, 
Might be seen the lonely pilgrim 

Wending on his darksome way. 



282 THE PILGEIM. 

Slow his steps, for lie was weary, 

And betimes he paused to rest; 
Then he rose, and, pressing onward, 

Murmered lowly: "I must haste." 
In his hand he held a chaplet, 

And his lips were moved in prayer, 
For the darkness and the silence 

Seemed to Whisper, God was there. 

On the lonely pilgrim journeyed, 

Nought disturbed him on his way, 
And his prayers he softly murmered 

As the midnight stole away* 
Hark ! amid the stillness rises 

On his ears a distant strain 
Softly sounding— now it ceases— 

Sweetly now it comes again. 

In his path he paused to Wonder 

While he listened to the Sound : 
On it came* so sWeet, so pensive, 

'Mid the blast that howled around ; 
And the restless Winds seemed soothed 

By that music* geiitle, tnild^ 
And they slept, as when a mothei 4 

Rocks to test her cradled child. 



THE PILGRIM. 283 

Strange and sweet the calm that followed, 

Stealing through the midnight air; 
Strange and sweet the sounds that floated 

Like an angel breathing there. 
From the sky the clouds were drifting 

Swiftly one by one away, 
And the sinless stars were shedding 

Here and there a silver ray. 

"Why this change?" the pilgrim whispered—* 
"Whence that music? whence its power? 
Earthly sounds are not so lovely I 

Angels love the midnight hour! " 
Bending o'er his staff, he wondered. 
Loath to leave that sacred place: 
"I must hasten," said he, sadly— 

On he pressed with quickened pace. 

Just before him rose a mountain, 

Dark its outline, steep its side—^ 
t)own its slopds that midnight music 
Seemed so soothingly to glide; 
" I will find it, said the pilgrim* 

"Though this mountain I must scale" — 
Scarcely said, when on his visioii 
Shone a distant light, and pale. 



284 THE PILGRIM. 

Glad he was ; and now he hastened — 

Brighter, brighter grew the ray — 
Stronger, stronger swelled the music 

As he struggled on his way. 
Soon he gained the mountain summit, 

Lo ! a church bursts on his view : 
From the church that light was flowing, 

And that gentle music too. 

Near he came— its door stood open — 

Still he stood in awe and fear ; 
" Shall I enter spot so holy ? 

Am I unforbidden here? 
I will enter — something bids me — 

Saintly men are praying here; 
Vigils sacred they are keeping, 

'Tis their Matin song I hear." 

Softly, noiselessly, he glided 

Through the portal; on his sight 
Shone a vision, bright, Strange, thrilling; 

Down he knelt — 'twas Christmas night- 
Down, in deepest adoration, 

Knelt the lonely pilgrim there; 
Joy unearthly, rapture holy, 

Blended with his whispered prayer. 



THE PILGRIM. 285 

Wrapped his senses were in wonder, 

On his soul an awe profound, 
As the vision burst upon him, 

'Mid sweet light and sweeter sound. 
"Is it real? is it earthly? 

Is it all a fleeting dream? 
Hark ! those choral voices ringing, 

Lo! those forms like angels seem." 

On his view there rose an altar, 

Glittering 'mid a thousand beams, 
Flowing from the burning tapers 

In bright, sparkling, silver streams. 
From unnumbered crystal vases 

Eose and bloomed the fairest flowers, 
Shedding 'round their balmy fragrance, 

'Mid the lights in. sweetest showers. 

Rich and gorgeous was the altar, 

Decked it was in purest white. 
Mortal hands had not arrayed it 

Thus, upon that Christmas night. 
Amid its lights and lovely flowers, 

The little tabernacle stood — 
Around it all was rich and golden, 

It alone was poor and rude. 



286 THE PILGRIM. 

Hark! Venite Adoremus! 

Bound the golden altar sounds— 
See that band of angels kneeling 

Prostrate, with their sparkling crowns ! 
And the pilgrim looked and listened, 

And he saw the angels there, 
And their snow-white wings were folded, 

As they bent in silent prayer. 

Twelve they were — bright rays of glory 

Eound their brows effulgent shone; 
But a wreath of nobler beauty 

Seemed to grace and circle one ; 
And he, beauteous, rose and opened 

Wide the tabernacle door : 
Hark ! Venite Adoremus 

Rises— bending, they adore. 

Lo ! a sound of censers swinging ! 

Clouds of incense weave around 
The altar rich a silver mantle, 

As the angels' hymns resound. 
List! Venite Adoremus 

Swells aloud in stronger strains, 
And the angels swing the censers, 

And they prostrate bend again. 



THE PILGKIM. 2S7 

Eising now, with voice of rapture, 

Bursts aloud 3 in thrilling tone, 
" Gloria in Excelsis Deo " 

Bound the sacramental throne. 
Oh!"twas sweet, 'twas sweet and charming 

As the notes triumphant flowed ! 
Oh ! 'twas sweet, while wreaths of incense 

Curled, and countless tapers glowed. 

Oh ! 'twas grand! that hymn of glory 

Earthly sounds cannot compare ; 
Oh ! 'twas grand ! it breath'd of heaven, 

As the angels sung it there. 
Eavished by the strains ecstatic, 

Eaptured by the vision grand, 
Gazed the pilgrim on the altar, 

Gazed upon the angel band. 

All was hushed ! the floating echoes 

Of the hymn had died away; 
Vanished were the clouds of incense, 

And the censers ceased to sway. 
Lo ! their wings are gently waving, 

And the angels softly rise, 
Bending towards the tabernacle, 

Worship beaming from their eyes. 



288 THE PILGKm. 

One last, lowly genuflection I 

From their brows love burning shone— 
Ah ! they're going, they've departed, 

All but one, the brightest one. 
"Why remains he?" thought the pilgrim, 

Ah ! he rises beauteously — 
w Listen ! " and the angel murmured 
Sweetly : " Pilgrim, hail to thee ! " 

" Come unto the golden altar, 

I'm an angel — banish fear — 
Come, unite in adoration 

With me, for our God is here. 
Come thy Jesus here reposes, 

Come ! He'll bless thy mortal sight — 
Come ! adore the Infant Saviour 

With me — for 'tis Christmas night." 

Now approached the pilgrim, trembling, 

Now beside the angel bent, 
And the deepest, blissful gladness, 

With his fervent worship blent. 
" Pilgrim," said the spirit, softly, 

" Thou hast seen bright angels here, 
And hast heard our sacred anthems, 

Filled with rapture, filled with fear. 



THE PILGRIM. 289 

*' We are twelve-r-'twas we who cliantecl 

First the Saviour's lowly birth, 
We who brought the joyful tiding3 

Of His coming, to the earth ; 
We who sung unto the shepherds, 

Yfatching on the mountain hight, 
That the Word was made Incarnate 

For them on that blessed night, 

"And since then we love to linger 

On that festal night on earth. 
And we leave our thrones of glory 

Here to keep the Saviour's birth, 
JIappy mortals ! happy mortals ! 

To-night the angels would be men ; 
And they leave their thrones in Heaven, 

For the Crib of Bethlehem. " 

And the angel led the pilgrim 

To the tabernacle door ; 
Lo ! an Infant there was sleeping, 

And the angel said, " Adore ! 
lie is sleeping yet he watches, 

See that beam of love divine, 
Pilgrim ! pay your worship holy 

To your Infant God and mine." 



290 THE PILGRIM. 

And tlie spirit slowly, slowly, 
Closed the tabernacle door, 
While the pilgrim lowly, lowly, 
Bent in rapture to adore. 
"Pilgrim," spoke the angel sweetly, 
" I must bid the my adieu ; 
Love! oh! love, the Infant Jesus !"- 
And he vanished from his view. 



* 



All was silent — silent — silent — 
Faded was the vision bright — 

But the pilgrim long remembered, 
In his heart, that Christmas night. 



A REVERIE. 



«,i||^HOSE hearts of ours— how strange! how 
"S&fc" strange ! 

•^ How they yearn to ramble and love to range 
Down through the vales of the years long gone, 
Up through the future that fast rolls on. 

To-days are dull— so they wend their ways 
Back to their beautiful yesterdays; 
The present is blank— so they wing their flight 
To future to-morrows where all seems bright. 

Build them a bright and beautiful home, 
They'll soon grow weary and want to roam $ 
Find them a spot without sorrow or pain, 
They may stay a day, but they're off again* 

Those hearts of ours — how wild! how wild! 
They're a3 hard to tame as an Indian child ; 
They're as restless as waves on the sounding sea, 
Like the breeze and the bird are they fickle and free. 

(201) 



292 A REVERIE. 

Those hearts of ours- -how lone ! how lone ! 
Ever, forever, they mourn and moan ; 
Let them revel in joy, let them riot in cheer; 
The revelry o'er, they're all the more drear. 

Those hearts of ours — how warm ! how warm ! 
Like the sun's bright rays, like the Summer's charm ; 
How they beam and burn ! how they gleam and glow ! 
Their flash and flame hide but ashes below. 

Those hearts of ours — how cold ! how cold ! 
Like December's snow on the waste or wold; 
And though our Decembers melt soon into May, 
Hearts know Decembers that pass not away. 

Those hearts of ours— how deep ! how deep! 
You may sound the sea where the corals sleep, 
Where never a billow hath rumbled or rolled — 
Depths still the deeper our hearts hide and hold. 

Where the wild storm's tramp hath ne'er been known 
The wrecks of the sea lie low and lone ; 
Thus the heart's surface may sparkle and glow, 
There are wrecks far down— there are graves below. 



A REVERIE. 293 

Those hearts of ours— but, after all, 
How shallow and narrow, how tiny and small ; 
Like scantiest streamlet or Summer's least rill, 
They're as easy to empty— as easy to fill. 

One hour of storm and how the streams pour! 
One hour of gun and the streams are no more; 
One little grief; — how the tears gush and glide ! 
One smile; — flow they ever so fast, they are dried. 



Those hearts of ours — how wise! how wise! 
They can lift their thoughts till they touch the skie3 ; 
They can sink their shafts, like a miner bold, 
Where wisdom'3 mines hide their paarls and gold* 

Aloft they soar witli undazzled gaze. 
Where the halls of the Day-King burn and blaz3 ; 
Or they fly with a wing that will never fail, 
O'er the sky's dark sea where the star-ships sail. 

Those hearts of ours — what fools! what fools ! 
How they laugh at wisdom, her cant and rules! 
How they waste their powers, and, when wasted, grieve 
For what they have squandered but cannot retrieve. 



294: THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

Those hearts of ours — how strong! how strong! 
Let a thousand sorrows around them throng, 
They can lear them all, and a thousand more, 
And they're stronger then than they were before. 

Those hearts of ours — how weak ! how weak ! 
Eut a single word of unkindness speak, 
Like a poisoned shaft, like a viper's fang, 
That one slight word leaves a life-long pang* 

Those hearts of ours — but I've said enough, 
As I find that my rhyme grows rude and rough ; 
I'll rest me now, but I'll come again 
Some other day, to resume my strain. 



-THE IE STORY RUNNETH THUS. 



r ^< 



«|i w|WO little children played among the flowers, 
^4K Their mothers were of kin, tho' far apart; 
•^ The children's ages were the very same 
E'en to an hour; and Ethel was her name, 
A fair, sweet girl, with great, brown, wond'ring eyes 
That seemed to listen just as if they held 
The gift of hearing with the power of sight. 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 295 

Six Summers slept upon her low white brow, 
And dreamed amid the roses of her cheeks. 
Her voice was sweetly low; and when she spoke 
Her words were music; and her laughter rang 
So like an altar-bell that, had you heard 
Its silvery sound a*ringing, you Would think 
Of kneeling down and worshipping the pure. 

They played among the roses—it was May--* 
And "hide and seek/' and "seek and hide/' all eve 
They played together till the sun went down. 
Earth held no happier hearts than theirs that day: 
And tired at last she plucked a crimson rose 
And gave to him, her playmate, cousin-kin ; 
And he went thro' the garden till he found 
The whitest rose of all the roses thero, 
And placed it in her long, brown, waving hair. 

"I give you red — and you — you give me white: 
What is the meaning?" said she, While a smile, 
As radiant as the light of angel's Wings, 
Swept bright across her face; the While) her eyes 
Seemed infinite purities half asleep 
In sweetest pearls — and he did make reply, 

u Sweet Ethel! white dies first— you know, the snow, 
(And it is not as white as thy pure faces) 



296 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS, 



Melts soon away — but roses red as mine 

Will bloom when all the snow hath passed away." 



She sighed a little sigh, then laughed again, 
And hand in hand they walked the winding ways 
Of that fair garden till they reached her home. 
A good-bye and a kiss — and he was gone. 

She leaned her head upon her mother's breast, 
And ere she fell asleep she, sighing, called, 
"Does white die first? my mother! and does red 
Live longer?" and her mother wondered much 
At such strange speech. She fell asleep 
With murmurs on her lips of red and white. 
Those children loved as only children can, 
With nothing in their love save their whole solves, 
When in their cradles they had been betroth'd. 
Tiiey knew it in a manner vague and dim— 
Uacoiiocious yet of what betrothal meant. 

The boy — she called him Merlin — a love name— 
(And he — he called her always Ullainee, 
No matter why) — the boy was full of moods* 
Upon his soul and face the dark and bright 
Were strangely intermingled. Hours would pass 
Rippling with his bright prattle — and then, hour3 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS, 297 

Would come and go; and never hear a word 
Fall from his lips, and never see a smile 
Upon his face. He was so like a cloud 
With ever-changeful hues, as she was like 
A golden sunbeam shining on its face. 



Ten years passed on. They parted and they met 
Not often in each year, yet as they grew 
In years, a consciousness unto them came 
Of human love. 

But it was sweet and pure. 
There was no passion in it. Eeverence 
Like Guardian-Angel watched o'er Innocence* 
One night in mid of May their faces met 
As pure as all the stars that gazed on them* 
They met to part from themselves and the world* 
Their hearts just touched to separate and bleed, 
Their eyes were linked in look, while saddest tears 
Pell down like rain upon the cheeks of each: 
They were to meet no more. 

Their hands were clasped 
To tear the clasp in twain; and all the stars 
Looked proudly clown on them, while shadows knelt, 



298 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

Or seemed to kneel, around them with the awe 
Evoked from any heart by sacrifice. 
And in the heart of that last, parting hour 
Eternity was beating. And he said, 
" We part to go to Calvary and to God— 
This is our garden of Gethsemane ; 
And here we bow our heads and breathe His prayer 
Whose heart was bleeding, while the angels heard: 
Not my will, Father ! but Thine own be done." 

Raptures meet agonies in such heart-hours; 
Gladness doth often fling her bright, warm arms 
Around the cold, white neck of grief— and thus 
The while they parted — sorrow swept their hearts 
Like a great, dark stormy sea — but sudden 
A joy, like sunshine — did it come from God? 
Flung over every w r ave that swept o'er them 
A more than golden glory. 

Merlin said: 
u Our loves must soar aloft to spheres divine, 
The human satisfies nor you nor me, 
(No hum;n love shall ever satisfy — 
Or ever did — the hearts that lean on it ) ; 
You sigh for something higher as dol, 
So let our spirits be espoused in God, 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 299 

And let our wedlock be as soul to soul ; 
And prayer shall be the golden marriage ring, 
And God will bless us both." 

She sweetly said: 
"Your words are echoes of my own soul's thoughts; 
Let God's own heart be our own holy home, 
And let us live as only angels live ; 
And let us love as our own angels love. 
'Tis hard to part — but it is better so, 
God's will is ours, and — Merlin ! let us go." 

And then she sobbed as if her heart would break- 
Perhaps it did — an awful minute passed, 
Long as an age and briefer than a flash 
Of lightning in the skies. No word was said ; 
Only a look which never was forgot. 
Between them fell the shadows of the night. 

Their faces went away into the dark, 
And never met again ; and yet their souls 
Were twined together in the heart of Christ. 

And Ethel went from earthland long ago, 
But Merlin stays still hanging on his cross. 
He would not move a nail that nails him there, 
He would not pluck a thorn that crowns him there. 



800 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

He hung himself upon the blessed cross 
With Ethel — she has gone to wear the crown 
That wreathes the brows of virgins who have kept 
Their bodies with their souls from earthly taint. 

And years and years, and weary years passed on 
Into the past; one Autumn afternoon, 
When flowers were in their agony of death, 
And winds sang "De Profundis" over them, 
And skies werp sad with shadows, he did walk 
Where, in a resting-place as dim a3 sweet, 
The dead were lying down ; the Autumn sun 
Was halfway down the west — the hour was three, 
The holiest hour of all the twenty-four, 
For Jesus leaned His head on it, and died. 
He walked alone amid the virgins' graves, 
Where virgins slept — a convent stood near by, 
And from the solitary oells of nuns 
Unto the pells of death the way was short, 

Low, simple stones and white watched o'er each grave, 
While in the hollows 'tween them sweet flowers grew, 
Entwining grave with grave. He read the names 
Engraven on the stones, and "Rest in peace" 
Was written 'neath them all, and o'er each namo 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 301 

A cross was graven on the lowly stone. 

He passed each grave with reverential awe, 

As if he passed an altar, where the Host 

Had left a memory of its sacrifice. 

And o'er the buried virgin's virgin dusk 

He walked as prayerfully as tho' he trod 

The holy floor of fair Loretta's shrine. 

He passed from grave to grave, and read the names 

Of those whose own pure lips had changed the names 

By which this world had known them into names 

Of sacrifice known only to their God; 

Veiling their faces they had veiled their names. 

The very ones who played with them as girls, 

Had* they passed there, would know no more than he 

Or any stranger where their playmates slept. 

And then he wondered all about their lives, their hearts, 

Their thoughts, their feelings, and their dreams, 

Their joys and sorrows, and their smiles and tears, 

He wondered at the stories that were hid 

Forever down within those simple graves. 

In a lone corner of that resting-plaoe 
Uprose a low white slab that marked a grave, 
Apart from all the others— long, sad grass 
Drooped o'er the little mound, and mantled it 



302 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

With veil of purest green — around the slab 
The whitest of white roses 'twined their arms, 
Eoses cold as the snows and pure as songs 
Of angels — and the pale leaflets and thorns 
Hid e'en the very name of her who slept 
Beneath. He walked on to the grave, but when 
He reached its side a spell fell on his heart 
So suddenly — he knew not why — and tears 
Went up into his eyes and trickled down 
Upon the grass — he was as strangely moved 
As if he met a long-gone face he loved. 
I believe he prayed. He lifted then the leaves 
That hid the name — but as he did, the thorns 
Did pierce his hand, and lo! amazed he read 
The very word — the very, very name 
He gave the girl in golden days before — 

" TTlladstee." 

He sat beside that lonely grave for long, 

He took its grasses in his trembling hand, 

He toyed with them and wet them with his tears, 

He read the name again and still again, 

He thought a thousand thoughts, and then he thought 

It all might be a dream — then rubbed his eyes 

And read the name again to be more sure; 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 303 

Then wondered and then wept — then asked himself: 
"What means it all ? Can this be Ethel's grave ? 
I dreamed her soul had fled. 
Was she the white dove that I saw in dream 
Fly o'er the sleeping sea so long ago ? " 

The convent bell 
Rang sweet upon the breeze, and answered him 
His question. And he rose and went his way 
Unto the convent gate; long shadows marked 
One hour before the sunset, and the birds 
Were singing Vespers in the convent trees. 
As -silent as a star-gleam came a nun 
In answer to his summons at the gate; 
Her face was like the picture of a saint, 
Or like an angel's smile — her downcast eyes 
Were like a half-closed tabernacle, where 
God's presence glowed — her lips were pale and worn 
By ceaseless prayer; and when she sweetly spoke 
And bade him enter, 'twas in such a tone 
As only voices own which day and night 
Sing hymns to God. 

She locked the massive gate. 
lie followed her along a flower-fringed walk 
That, gently rising, led up to the home 



304 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

Of virgin-hearts. The very flowers that bloomed 
Within the place, in beds of sacred shapes — 
(For they had fashioned them with holy care, 
Into all holy forms — a chalice, a cross, 
And sacred hearts— and many saintly names, 
That when their eyes would fall upon the flowers, 
Their souls might feast upon some mystic sign) — 
Were fairer far within the convent walls, 
And purer in their fragrance and their bloom 
Than all their sisters in the outer world. 

lie went into a wide and humble room — 
The floor Was painted, and upon the walls, 
In humble frames, most holy paintings hung; 
Jesus and Mary and many an olden saint 
Were there. And she, the veil-clad sister, spoke: 
"I'll call the mother/' and she bowed and went. 

He waited in the wide and humble room, 

The only room in that unworldly place 

This world could enter, and the pictures looked 

Upon his face and down into his soul, 

And strangely stirred him. On the mantle stood 

A crucifix, the figured Christ of which 

Bid seem to suffer; and he rose to look 



m 

THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 305 

More nearly on it; but he shrank in awe 
When he beheld a something in its face 
Like his own face. 

But more amazed he grew, when, at the foot 
Of that strange crucifix he read the name — 

" Ullainee.'' 
A whirl of thought swept o'er his startled soul — 
When to the door he heard a footstep come, 
And then a voice— the mother of the nuns 
Had entered— and in calmest tone began: 

"Forgive, kind sir, my stay; our Matin song 
Had not yet ended when you came; our rule 
Forbids our leaving choir; this my excuse." 
She bent her head — the rustle of her veil 
Was like the trembling of an angel's wing, 
Her voice's tone as sweet. She turned to him 
And seemed to ask him with her still, calm look 
What brought him there, and waited his reply. 

"I am a stranger, Sister, hither come." 
He said, " upon an errand still more strange ; 
But thou wilt pardon me and bid me go 
If what I crave yon cannot tightly grant, 
I Would not dare intrude, tioi* claim your time 
Save that a i'rienitshipi deep as death, and strong 
As life, has brought me to this holy place** 



306 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 



He paused. She looked at him an instant, bent 
Her lustrous eyes upon the floor, but gave 
Him no reply, save that her very look 
Encouraged him to speak, and he went on : 
He told her Ethel's story from the first, 
lie told her of the day amid the flowers, 
When they were only six sweet summers old ; 
He told her of the night when all the flowers, 
Alistning, heard the words of sacrifice — 
He told her all; then said : " I saw a stone 
In yonder graveyard where your sisters sleep, 
And writ on it, all hid by roses white, 
I saw a name I never ought forget." 

She wore a startled look, but soon repressed 
The wonder that had come into her face. 
" Whose name ? " she calmly spoke. But when he said 
" Ullaikee," 
She forward bent her face and pierced his own 
With look intensest; and he thought he heard 
The trembling of her veil, as if the brow 
It mantled* throbbed with many thrilling thoughts 
But quickly rose she, and in hurried tone 
Spoke thus: "'Tis hour of sunset, 'tis our rule 
To close the gates to all till to-morrow's morn. 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 307 

Return to morrow, then, if so God wills, 
I'll see you." 

He gave many thanks, passed out 
From that unworldly place into the world. 
Straight to the lonely graveyard went his steps, 
Swift to the " White-Rose -Grave," his heart: he knelt 
Upon its grass and prayed that God might will 
The mystery's solution; then he took, 
Where it was drooping on the slab, a rose, 
The whiteness of whose leaves was like the foam 
Of summer wave3 upon a summer sea. 

Then thro' the night he went 
And reached his room, where, weary of his thoughts 
Sleep came, and coming found the dew of tears 
Undried within his eyes, and flung her veil 
Around him. Then he dreamt a strange, weird dream. 
A rock, dark waves, white roses and a grave, 
And cloistered flowers, and cloistered nuns, and tears 
That shone like jewels on a diadem, 
And two great angels with such shining wings ; 
All these and more were in most curious way 
Blended in one dr:am or many dreams. Then 
He woke wearier in his mind. Then slept 
Again and had a .other dream. 



308 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

His dream ran thus 
(He told me all of it many years ago, 
But I forgot the most. I remember this) : 
A dove, whiter than whiteness' very self, 
Fluttered thro' his sleep in vision or dream, 
Bearing in its flight a spotless rose. It 
Flew away across great, long distances, 
Thro' forests where the trees were all in dream, 
And over wastes where silences held reign, 
x\nd down pure valleys, till it reached a shore 
By which blushed a sea in the ev'ning sun; 
The dove rested there awhile, rose again 
And flew across the sea into the sun ; 
And then from near or far (he could not say) 
Game sound as faint as echo's own echo — 
A low sweet hymn it seemed— and now 
And then he heard, or else he thought he heard, 
As if it were the hymn's refrain, the words, 
" White dies first! " "White dies first," 

The sun had passed his noon and Westward sloped; 
lie hurried to the cloister and was told 
The Mother waited him. He entered in, 
Into the wide and pictured room, and there 
The mother sat and gave him welcome twice. 



THEIK STORY EUNNETH THUS. 309 

" I prayed last night," she spoke ; " to know God's will, 
I prayed to Holy Mary and the saints 
That they might pray for me, and I might know 
My conduct in the matter; now, kind sir, 
What would'st thou ? Tell thy errand." He replied : 

"It was not idle curiosity 
That brought me hither or that prompts my lips 
To ask the story of the White-Kose- Grave, 
To seek the story of the sleeper there 
Whose name I knew so long and far away. 
Who was she pray ? Dost deem it right to tell ? " 
There was a pause before the answer came, 
As if there was a comfort in her heart 
There was a tremor in her voice when she 
Unclosed two palest lips, and spoke in tone 
Of whisper more than word : 

" She was a child 
Of lofty gift and grace who fills that grave, 
And who has filled it long — and yet it seems 
To me but one short hour ago we laid 
Her body there. Her mem'ry clings around 
Our hearts, our cloisters, fresh, and fair, and sweet. 
We often look for her in places where 
Her face was wont to be : among the flowers, 
In chapel, underneath those trees. Long years 



310 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

Have passed and mouldered her pure face, and yet 
It seems to hover here and haunt us all. 
I can not tell you all. It is enough 
To see one ray of light for us to judge 
The glory of the sun ; it is enough 
To catch one glimpse of heaven's blue 
For us to know the beauty of the sky. 
It is enough to tell a little part 
Of her most holy life, that you may know 
The hidden grace and splendor of the whole. 
"Nay, nay." He interrupted her: "all! all! 
Thoif It tell me all, kind Mother." 

She went on 
Unheeding his abruptness: 

" One sweet day — 
A feast of Holy Virgin, in the month 
Of May, at early morn, e're yet the dew 
Had passed from off the flowers and grass, e're yet 
Our nuns had come from holy Mass — there came 
With summons quick unto our convent gate 
A fair young girl. Her feet were wet with dew— 
Another dew was moist within her eyes — > 
Her large, brown, wond'ring eyes. She asked for me, 
And as I went she rushed into my arm3 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 311 

Like weary bird into the leaf-roofed branch 

That sheltered it from storm. She sobbed and sobbed 

Until I thought her very soul would rush 

From her frail body, in a sob, to God, 

I let her sob her sorrow all away. 

My words were waiting for a calm. Her sobs 

Sank into sighs — and they too sank and died 

In faintest breath. I bore her to a seat 

In this same room— and gently spoke to her, 

And held her hand in mine — and soothed her 

With words of sympathy, until she seemed 

As tranquil as myself. 

And then I asked : 
What brought thee hither, child ? and what wilt thou ? 

< Mother ! ' she said ; ' Wilt let me wear the veil ? 
Wilt let me serve my God as e'en you serve 
Him in this cloistered place ? I pray to be — 
Unworthy tho' I be — to be His spouse. 
Nay, mother — say not nay — 'twill break a heart 
Already broken ' — and she looked on me 
With those brown, wond'ring eyes which pleaded more, 
More strongly and more sadly than her lips 
That I might grant her sudden, strange request. 

'Hast thou a mother?' questioned I. 'I had,' 



312 THEIK STOM KTJNNETH THUS. 

She said— < but heaven has her now;— and thou 
Wilt be my mother,— and the orphan girl 
Will make her life her thanks.' 

< Thy father, child?' 

* Ere I was oradled he was in his grave.' 

< And hast nor sister nor brother ? ' ' No/ she said, 

* God gave my mother cnly me;— one yeai 
This very day He parted us.' ' Poor child ' — 

I murmured—^* Nay— kind sister' — she replied: 

< I have much wealth— they left me ample means — 
I have true friends who love me and protect. 

I was a minor until yesterday; 
But yesterday all guardianship did cease, 
And I am mistress of myself and all 
My worldly means— and, Sister, they are thine 
If thou but take myself— nay— don't refuse.' 
s Nay — nay— my child ! ' I said,— c The only wealth 
We wish for is the wealth of soul — of grace. 
Not all your gold could unlock yonder gate, 
Or buy a single thread of virgin's veil. 
Not all the coins in coffers of a king 
Could bribe an entrance here for any one. 
God's voice alone can claim a cell — a veil, 
For any one He sends. 

Who sent you here, 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 313 

My child? Thyself? Or did some holy one 
-Direct thy steps? Or else some sudden grief? 
Or mayhap, disappointment ? Or perhaps, 
A sickly weariness of that bright world 
Hath, cloyed thy spirit? Tell me, which it is/ 

'Neither'— she quickly, almost proudly spoke. 

* Who sent you/ then ? ' 

*A youthful Christ' — she said-^ 

' Who, had he lived in those far days of Christ, 
Would have, been His belov'd Disciple, sure, 
Would have been His own gentle John ; and would 
flayo leaned,- on Thursday night, upon His breast 
And stood, on Friday eve, beneath His cross 
To take His Mother from Him when He died. 
He sent me here— he said the word last night 
In my own garden, — this the word he said : 
Oh! had you heard him whisper: "Ethel, dear! 
Your heart wa3 born with veil of virgin on — 
I hear it rustb every time we meet, 
In all your words and smiles ; — and when you weep 
I hear it rustle more. Go— wear your veil — 
And outward be what inwardly thou art, 
And hast been from the first. And, Ethel, list: 
My heart was born with priestly vestments on, 
And at Dre:mi- Altars I have ofttimes stood, 



314 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

And said such sweet Dream-Masses in my sleep — 

And when I lifted up a white Dream-Ho3t, 

A silver Dream-Bell rang — and angels knelt, 

Or seemed to kneel, in worship, Ethel, say — 

Thou would'st not take the vestments from my heart 

Nor more than I would tear the veil from thine. 

My vested and thy veiled heart part to-night 

To climb our Calvary and to meet in God — 

And this, fair Ethel, is Gethsemane — 

x\nd He is here, Who, in that other, bled— 

And they are here who came to comfort Him — 

His angels and our own; and His great prayer, 

Ethel, is ours to-night — let's say it, then: 

Father! Thy will be done! Go find your veil 

And I my vestments," — He did send me here,' 

' She paused — a few stray tears had dropped upon 
Her closing words and softened them to sighs. 
I listened, inward moved — but outward calm and cold, 
To the girl's strange story.' Then smiling said : 

' I see it is a love-tale after all, 
With much of folly and some of fact in it — 
It is a heart affair, and in such things 
There's little logic, and there's less of sense. 
You brought your heart, dear child, but left your head 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 315 

Outside the gates — nay, go, and find the head 
You lost last night— and then, I am quite sure, 
You'll not be anxious to confine your heart 
Within this cloistered place.' 

She seemed to wince 
Beneath my words one moment;— then replied: 
6 If e'en a wounded heart did bring me here, 
Dost thou do, Sister, well to wound it more ? 
If merely warmth of feelings urged me here, 
Dost thou do well to chill them into ice ? 
And were I disappointed in yon world, 
Should that debar me from a purer place ? 
You say it is a love-tale — so it is; 
The vase was human— but the flower divine, 
And if I break the vase with my own hands, 
Will you forbid that I should humbly ask 
The heart of God to be my lily's vase? 
Td trust my lily to no heart on earth 
Save his who yesternight did send me here 
To dip it in the very blood of Christ, 

And plant it here.' 

'And then she sobbed outright 
A long, deep sob.' 

I gently said to her : 
1 Nay — child — I spoke to test thee— do not weep. 



816 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

If thou art called of God, thou yet shalt come 
And find e'en here a home. But God is slow 
In all His works and ways, and slower still 
When He would deck a bride to grace His Court. 
Go, now, and in one year— if thou dost come 
Thy veil and cell shall be prepared for thee— 
Nay— urge me not — it is our holy rule— 
A year of trial ! I must to choir, and thou 
Into the world to watch and wait and pray 
Until the bridegroom comes.' 

She rose and went 
Without a word. 

And twelvemonth after came, 
True to the very day and hour; and said: 

'Wilt keep thy promise made one year ago? 
Where is my cell — and where my virgin's veil? 
Wilt try me more? Wilt send me back again ? 
I came once with my wealth and was refused, 
And now I come as poor as Holy Christ 
Who had no place to rest His weary head— 
My wealth is gone ; I offered it to him 
Who sent me here; he sent me speedy w r ord: 

1 Give all unto the poor in quiet way 
And hide the giving — ere you give yourself 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 317 

To God ! ' « Wilt take me now for my own sake ? 
I bring my soul — 'tis little worth I ween, 
And yet it cost sweet Christ a priceless price.' 

'My child/ I said, ' thrice welcome— enter here; 
A few short days of silence and of prayer, 
And thou shalt be the Holy Bridegroom's bride. 5 

Her novice days went on ; much sickness fell 

Upon her. Oft she lay for weary weeks 

In awful agonies, and no one heard 

A murmur from her lips. She oft would smile 

A sunny, playful smile, that she might hide 

Her sufferings from us all. When she was well, 

She was the first to meet the hour of prayer — 

The last to leave it — and they named her well, 

The angel of the cloister. Once I heard 

The Father of oui* sotils say when she passed — 

1 Beneath that veil of sacrificial black 
She wears the white l^obe of her innocence/ 
And we— we believed it. There are Sisters here 
Of three score yeal'S of service, who would say : 

1 Within our memory n:ver moved a veil 
That hid so saintly and so pure a heart/ 
And we— we felt it, and we loved her so* 



318 THEIR STORY BURNETII THUS. 

We treated her as angel and as child. 

I never heard her spoak about the past, 

I never heard her mention e'en a name 

Of any in the world. She little spake ; 

She seemed to have rapt moments — then she grew 

Absent-minded, and would come and ask me 

To walk alone and say her Rosary 

Beneath the trees. She had a voice divine, 

And when she sang for us, in truth it seemed 

The very heart of song was breaking on her l : ps. 

The dower of her mind, as of her heart, 

Was of the richest, and she mastered art 

By instinct more than study. Her weak hands 

Moved ceaselessly amid the beautiful* 

There is a picture hanging in our cholt 

She painted. I remember well the morn 

She came to me and told me she had dreamt 

A dream; then asked me wo'iild I let her paint 

Her dream. I gave permission. Weeks and weeks 

Went by, and ev'ry gpai'e hour of the clay 

She kept her cell all busy with her work. 

At last 'twas finished, and she brought it forth— 

A picture my poor Word^may not portray. 

But you must gaze on it with yotir own eyes f 



THEIR STOEY RUNNETH THUS. 319 

And drink its magic and its meanings in ; 
I'll show it thee, kind sir, before you go. 

In every May for two whole days she kept 

Her cell. We humored her in that, but when 

The days had passed, and she came forth again, 

Her face Was tender as a lily's leaf, 

With God's smile on it — and for days and days 

Thereafter, she would scarcely ope her lips 

Save when in prayer, and then her eyery look 

Was rapt as if her soul did hold with God 

Strange converse. And who knows? mayhap she did. 

I half forgot — on yonder mantlepiece 
You see that wondrous crucifix ; one year 
She spent on it, and begged to put beneath 
That most mysterious word—' Ullainee*' 

At last the cloister's angel disappeared ; 
Her face was missed at choir, her voice was missed— 
Her words were missed where every day we met 
In recreation's hour. And those who passed 
The angel's cell would lightly tread, and breathe 
A prayer that death might pass the angel by 
And let her longer stay, for she lay ill— 
Her frail, pure life was ebbing fast away* 



320 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

Ah ! many were the orisons that rose 

From all our hearts that God might spare her still ; 

At Benediction and at holy Mass 

Our hands were lifted, and strong pleadings went 

To heaven for her ; we did love her so— 

Perhaps too much we loved her, and perhaps 

Our love was far too human. Slow and slow 

She faded like a flower. And slow and slow 

Her pale cheeks whitened more. And slow and slow 

Her large, brown, wondering eyes sank deep and dim. 

Hope died in all our faces, but on her's 

Another and a different hope did shine, 

And from her wasted lips sweet prayers arose 

That made her watchers weep. Fast came the end. 

Never such silenco o'er the cloister hung — 

We walked more softly, and, whene'er we spoke, 

Our voices fell to whispers, lest a sound 

Might jar upon her ear. The Sisters watched 

In turns beside her couch; to each she gave 

A gentle word, a smile, a thankful look. 

At times her mind did wander; no wild words 

Escapsd her lips — she seemed to float away 

To far-gone days, and live again in scenes 

Whose hours were bright and happy. In her sleep 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 321 

She ofttimes spoke low, gentle, holy words 

About her mother ; and sometimes she sang 

The fragments of sweet, olden songs — and when 

She woke again, she timidly would ask 

If she had spoken in her sleep, and what 

She said, as if, indeed, her heart did fear 

That sleep might open there some, long-closed gate 

She would keep locked. And softly as a cloud, 

A golden cloud upon a summer's day, 

Floats from the heart of land out o'er the sea— 

So her sweet life was passing. One bright eve, 

The fourteenth day of August, when the sun 

Was wrapping, like a king, a purple cloud 

Around him — on descending day's bright throne, 

She sent for me and bade me come in haste. 

I went into her cell. There was a light 

Upon her face, unearthly; and it shone 

Like gleam of star upon a dying rose. 

I sat beside her couch, and took her hand 

In mine— a fair, frail hand that scarcely seem'd 

Of flesh— so wasted, white and wan it was. 

Her great, brown, wondering eyes had sunk away 

Deep in their sockets— and their light shone dim 

As tapers dying on an altar. Soft 



322 THEIK STOKY KUNNETH THUS. 

As a dream of beauty on me fell, low, 

Last words. 

* Mother! the tide is ebbing fast; 

But e're it leaves this shore to cross the deep 

And seek another, calmer — I would say 

A few last words, and, Mother, I would ask 

One favor more, which thou wilt not refuse. 

Thou wert a mother to the orphan girl, 

Thou gav'st her heart a home — her love a vase, 

Her weariness a rest, her sacrifice a shrine— 

And thou did'st love me, Mother, as she loved 

Whom I shall meet to-morrow, far away— 

But no — it is not far— that other heav'n 

Touches this, Mother, I have felt its touch, 

And now I feel its clasp upon my soul. 

I'm going from this heaven into that, 

To-morrow, Mother. Yes, I dreamt it all. 

It was the sunset of Our Lady's feast. 

My soul passed upwards thro' the golden clouds 

To sing the second vespers of the day 

With all the angels. Mother — 'ere I go — 

Thou'lt listen, Mother sweet, to my last words. 

Which, like all last words, tell what e'er was first 

In life or tenderest in heart. I came 

Unto my convent cell and virgin veil, 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS, 323 

Sent by a spirit that had touched mine own 

As wings of angels touch— to fly apart 

Upon their missions — till they meet again 

In heaven, heart to heart, wing to wing. 

The "Angel of the Cloister," you called me, 

Unworthy sure of such a beauteous name — 

My mission's over — and your angel goes 

To-morrow home. This earthly part which s L ays 

You'll lay away within a simple grave — 

But Mother, on its slab thou It grave this name, 

"Ullainee!" (she spelt the letters out) 

Nor ask me why — tho' if thou wilt I'll tell; 

It is my soul-name, given long ago 

By one who found it in some Eastern book 

Or dreamt it in a dream and gave it me, 

Nor ever told the meaning of the name; 

And, Mother, should he ever come and read 

That name upon my grave, and come to thee 

And ask thee tidings of Ullainee, 

Thou'lt tell him all— and watch him if he weaps — 

Show him the crucifix my poor hands carved — 

Show him the picture in the chapel choir — 

And watch him if he weeps — and then 

There are three humble scrolls in yonder drawer/ 

(She pointed to the table in her room) 



324 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

'Some words of mine and words of his are there. 
And keep these simple scrolls until he comes, 
And put them in his hands ; and, Mother, watch, 
Watch him if he weeps -and tell him this: 
I tasted all the sweets of sacrifice, 
I kissed my cross a thousand times a day, 
I hung and bled upon it in mj dreams, 
I lived on it — I loved it to the last.' And then 
A low, soft sigh erept thro' tho Virgo's cell — 
I looked upon her face, and death was there." 
There was a pause— and in the pause one wava 
Of shining tears swept thro' the Mother's eyes. 

''And thus/ 1 she said, " our Angel passed away. 

We buried her, and at her last request 

We wrote upon the slab, < TTllainee.' 

Aftd I— (for she asked me one day thus, 

The day she hung her picture in the choir) 

I planted o'er her grave a white rose-tree, 

The roses crept ground the slab and hid 

The graven name — and still we sometimes cull 

Her sweet, white ros:s ; and we place them on 

Our Chapel-Altar." 

Then the Mother rose, 

Without another word, and led him thro' 

A long, vast hall, then up a flight of stairs 



THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 325 

Unto an oaken door, which turned upon its hinge 

Noiselessly — then into a Chapel dim-~ 

On Gospel side of which there was a gate 

From ceiling down to floor, and back of that 

A long and narrow choir, with many stalls, 

Brown-oaken ; all along the walls were hung 

Saint-piotures, whose sweet faces looked upon 

The faces of the Sisters in their prayers. 

Beside a " Mater Dolorosa " hung 

The picture of the "Angel of the Choir," 

He sees it now thro' vista of the years, 

Which stretch between him and that long-gone day, 

It hangs within his memory as fresh 

In tint and touch and look as long ago. 

There was a power in it, as if the soul 

Of her who painted it had shrined in it 

Its very self; there was a spell in it 

That fell upon his spirit thro' his eyes, 

And made him dream of God's own holy heart. 

The shadow of the picture, in weak words, 

Was this, or something very like to this : 

A wild, weird wold, 

Just like the desolation of a heart, 

Stretched far away into infinity; 

Above it low, gray skies drooped sadly down, 



326 THEIR STORY RUNNETH THUS. 

As if they fain would weep, and all was bare 

As bleakness' own bleak self; a mountain stood 

All mantled with the glory of a light 

That flashed from out the heavens, and a cross 

With such a pale Christ hanging in its arms 

Did crown the mount ; and either side the cross 

There were two crosses lying on the rocks — 

One of whitest roses— Ullainee 

Was woven into it with buds of red ; 

And one of reddest roses — Merlin's name 

Was w^oven into it with buds of white. 

Below the cross and crosses and the mount 

The earth-place lay so dark and bleak and drear; 

Above, a golden glory seemed to hang 

Like God's own benediction o'er the names. 

I saw the picture once — it moved me so 
I ne'er forgot its beauty or its truth; 
But words as weak as mine can never paint 
That Crucifixion's picture. 

Merlin said to me, 
" Some day— some far-off day when I am dead, 
You have the simple rhymings of two hearts, 
And if you think it best, the world may know 
A love-tale crowned by purest sacrifice." 



NIGHT AFTER TEE PICNIC, 



|||pND, "Happy! Happy! Happy!" 
^p Bang the bells of all the hours; 
& "Shyly! Shyly! Shyly!" 

Looked and listened all the flowers; 
They were wakened from their slumbers, 

By the footsteps of the fair; 
And they smiled iti their awaking 
On the faces gathered there* 

* Brightly I Brightly! Brightly!*' 
Looked the overhanging trees, 

For beneath their bending branches 
Floated tresses in the breeze. 

And they wondered who had wandered 
With such voices, and so gay ; 

And their leaflets seemed to whisper 

To each other : " Who are they ? " 

oar* 



323 KIGHT AFTER THE PICNIC. 

They were just like little children, 

Not a sorrow's shade was there; 
And "Merry! Merry! Merry I" 

Rang their laughter thro' the air. 
There was not a brow grief-darkened, 

Was there there a heart in pain ? 
But, "Happy! Happy! Happy!" 

Came the happy bells' refrain. 

When the stately trees were bending 

O'er a simple, quiet home 
That looked humble as an altar, 

Nestling 'neath a lofty dome. 
Thither went they gayly ! gayly ! 

Where their coming was a joy, 
Just to pass away together 

One long day without alloy. 

"Slowly! Slowly! Slowly!" 
Melted morning's mist away, 
Till the sun, in all its splendor, 
Lit the borders of the bay. 
"Gladly! Gladly! Gladly!" 

Glanced the waters that were gray, 
While the wavelets whispered "Welcome!" 
To us all that happy day. 



NIGHT AFTER THE PICNIC. 329 

An 1 "Happy! Happy! Happy !" 

Rang a bell in every heart, 
And it chimed, " All day let no one, 

Think that ye shall ever part. 
Go and sip from every moment 

Sweets to perfume many years; 
Keep your feast, and be too happy 

To have thought of any tears." 

There was song with one's soul in it, 

And the happy hearts grew still 
While they leaned upon the music 

Like fair lily's o'er the rill ; 
Till the notes had softly floated 

Into silent seas aw 7 ay 
O'er the wavelets, where they listened 

While they rocked upon the bay. 

And — - — "Dreamy! Dreamy! Dreamy!" 

When the song's sweet life was o'er, 
Drooped the eyes that will remember 

All its echoes evermore. 
And, "Stilly! Stilly! Stilly!" 

Beat the hearts of some, I ween, 
That can see the unseen mystery 

Which a song may strive to screerl. 



330 NIGHT AFTEE THE PICNIC. 

Then "Gaily! Gaily! Gaily!" 

Rang the laughter everywhere, 
From the lips that seemed too lightsome 

For the sigh of any care. 
And the dance went " Merry ! Merry ! " 

Whilst the feet that tripped along, 
Bore the hearts that were as happy 

As a wild bird's happy song. 

And sweet words with smiles upon them, 

Joy-winged, flitted to and fro, 
Flushing every face they met with 

With the glory of their glow* 
Not a brow with cloud upon it — 

Not an eye that seemed to know 
What a tear is; not a bosom 

That had ever nursed a woe. 

And how « Swiftly 1 Swiftly! Swiftly!" 

Like the ripples of a stream, 
Did the bright hours chase each othci% 

Till it all seemed like a dream—* 
Till it seemed as if ho Never 

Ever in this world had been, 
to o'ercloud the brief Forever, 

Shining o'er the happy scene. 



NIGHT AFTER THE riCNIC. 331 

Dimly ! dimly fell the shadows 

Of the tranquil eventide ; 
But the sound of dance and laughter 

Would not die, and had not died; 
And still " Happy ! Happy ! Happy ! " 

Rang the voiceless vesper bells 
O'er the hearts that were too happy 

To remember earth's farewells. 

Came the night hours— faster ! faster ! 

Eose the laughter and the dance, 
And the eyes that should look weary 

Shone the brighter in their glance : 
And they stole from every minute 

What no other day could lend— 
They were happy! happy! happy! 

But the feast must have an end. 

u Children, come ! " the words were cruel—* 
'Twas the death sigh of the feast; 
And they came, still merry! merry! 

At the bidding of the priest, 
Who had heard the joy-bells ringing 
Hound him all the summer day. 
" Happy ! Happy ! Happy ! Happy ! " 
Did he hear an angel say ? 



332 LINES. 

Happy! happy! still more happy ! 

Yea, the happiest are they. 
I was moving 'mid the children 

By the borders of the bay, 
And I bring to God no record 

Of a single sin this day. 

"Happy! Happy! Happy !" 

When your life seems lone and long, 
You will hear that feast's bells ringing 
Far and faintly thro' my song. 



LINES. 



||||HE death of men is not the death 
S^Ik 9 Of rights that urged them to the fray; 
•^ For men may yield 

On battle field 
A noble life with stainless shield, 
And swords may rust 
Above their dust, 
But still, and still 
The touch and thrill 
Of freedom's vivifying breath 

Will nerve a heart and rouse a will 



LINES. 333 

In some hour, in the days to be, 
To win back triumphs from defeat; 
And those who blame us then will greet 

Eight's glorious eternity. 

For right lives in a thousand things ; 

Its cradle is its martyr's grave, 
Wherein it rests awhile until 

The life that heroisms gave 
Will rise again, at God's own will, 

And right the wrong 

Which long and long 
Did reign above the true and just; 
And thro' the songs the poet sings, 
Right's vivifying spirit rings; 

Each simple rhyme 

Keeps step and time 
With those who marched away and fell, 

And all his lines 

Are humble shrines 
Where love of right will love to dwell. 



DEATH OF TUE PRINCE IMPERIAL. 



iAILETH a woman, " Oh ! my God ! » 
tH^ A breaking heart in a broken breath, 



*• A hopeless cry o'er her heart-hope's death ! 
Can words catch the chords of the winds that wail, 
When love s last lily lies dead in the yale ! 
Let hei 4 alone, 

Under the rod 
With the infinite moan 
Of her soul for God. 
Ah ! song ! you may echo the sound of pain, 
But you never may shrine, 
In verse or line, 
The pang of the heart that breaks in twain. 

Waileth a woman, "Oh! my God!" 
Wind-driven waves with no hearts that ache, 
Why do your passionate pulses throb ? 
No lips that speak— have ye souls that sob ? 

(034) 



DEATH OF THE PK1NCE IMPERIAL, 335 

We carry the cross— ye wear the crest, 

"We have onr God—and ye, your shore, 
Whither ye rush in the storm to rest ; 
We have the havens of holy prayer — 
And we have a hope—have ye despair? 

For storm-rocked waves ye break evermore, 
Adown the shores and along the years, 
In the whitest foam of the saddest tears, 
And we, as ye, oh ! waves, gray waves ! 
Drift over a sea more deep and wide, 
For we have sorrow and we have death, 
And ye have only the tempest's breath; 
But we have God when heart- oppressed, 
As a calm and beautiful shore of rest. 

Oh! waves! sad waves! how you flowed between 
The crownlcss Prince and the exiled Queen ! 

Waileth a woman, "Oh! my God! " 
Her hopes are withered, her heart is crushed, 

For the love of her lov^ is cold and dead, 

The joy of her joy hath forever fled ; 

A starless and pitiless night hath rushed 

On the light of her life — and far away 

In an Afric wild lies her poor dead child, 



336 DEATH OF THE FKINCE IMPERIAL. 

Lies the heart of her heart— let her alouo 

Under the rod 
With her infinit3 moan, 

Oh! my God! 
He was beautiful, pure and brave, 

The brightest grace 

Of a royal race; 
Only his throne is but a grave 5 

Is there fate in fames? 

Is there doom in names ? 
Ah ! what did the cruel Zulu spears 
Care for the prince or his mother's tears ? 
What did the Zulu's ruthless lance 
Care for the hope of the future France? 

Crieth the Empress, u Oh ! my son ! " 
He was her own and her only one, 
She had nothing to give him but her love, 
'Twas kingdom enough on earth — above 
She gave him an infinite faith in God; 

Let her cry her cry 
Over her own and only one, 
All the glory is gone— is gone, 

Into her broken-hearted sigh. 



IN MEMORIAM. 337 

Moaneth a mother, "Oh! my child !" 

And who can sound that depth of woe ? 
Homeless, throneless, crownless — now 
She bows her sorrow- wreathed brow — 
(So fame and all its grandeurs go) 
Let her alone 

Beneath the rod 
With her infinite moan, 
"Oh! my God!" 



IN MEMORIAM. 

FATOER KEELER DIED FEB. 28TII, 1880, IN MOBILE, ALA. 
INSCRIBED TO niS SISTER. 



"IWEET Christ! let him live, Ah! we need his 
P life, 

«"• And woe to us if he goes ! 
Oh ! his life is beautiful, sweet and fair, 
Like a holy hymn, and the stillest prayer; 
Let him linger to help us in the strife 

On earth, with our sins and woes." 



338 IN MEMORIAM. 

'Twas the cry of thousands who loved him so, 
The Angel of Death said "No ! oh ! no ! " 
He was passing away — and none might save 
The virgin priest from a spotless grave. 

" Oh God ! spare his life, we plead and pray, 
" He taught us to love you so — 
So, so much — his life is so sweet and fair — 
A still, still song — and a holy prayer; 
He is our Father; oh! let him stay — 
He gone, to whom shall we go?" 

'Twas the wail of thousands who loved him so, 
But the Angel of Death murmured low " No, no;" 
And the voice of his angel from far away, 
Sang to Christ in heav'n — Ci He must not stay." 

" Oh, Mary ! kneel at the great white throna, 
And pray with your children there— 
Our hearts need his heart — 'tis sweet and fair, 
Like the sound of hymns and the breath of prayer, 
Goeth he now — we are lone— so lone, 
And who is there left to care " 






IN MEMORIAM. 339 

Twas the cry of the souls who loved him so — 
But the Angel of Death sang "Children, no!" 
And a voice like Christ's from the far away, 
Sounded sweet and low, "He may not stay." 

From his sister's heart swept the wildest moan, 

"Oh! God let my brother stay — 
I need him the most — oh ! me ! how lone, 

If he passes from earth away — 
Oh ! beautiful Christ, for my poor sake 
Let him live for me, else my heart will break." 

But the Angel of Death wept " Poor child ! No," 
And Christ sang "Child, I will soothe thy woe." 

" Oh! Christ! let his sister's prayer be heard, 
Let her look on his face once more ! 
Ah ! that prayer was a wail — without a word — 
She will look on him nevermore ! " 

The long gray distances unmoved swept 
Tween the dying eyes and the eyes that wept. 

He was dying fast, and the hours went by, 

Ah ! desolate hours were they ! 
His mind had hidden away somewhere 
Back of a fretted and wearied brow, 

Ere he passed from life away. 



340 IN MEMORIAM. 

And one who loved him (at dead of night), 

Crept up to an altar, where the light 
That guards Christ's Eucharistic sleep, 

Shone strangely down on his vow, 
" Spare him ! oh God ! — oh God ! for me, 

Take me, beautiful Christ, instead — 
Let me taste of death and come to thee — 

I will sleep for him with the dead." 

The Angel of Death sail "No! Priest! No! 
You must suffer and live, but he must go." 
And a voice like Christ's sang far away: 
" He will come to me, but you must stay." 

We leaned on hope that was all in vain, 

'Till the terrible word at last 
Told our stricken hearts he was out of pain. 

And his beautiful life had passed. 

Oh! take him away from where he died; 
Put him not with the common dead 

(For he was so pure and fair,) 
And the city was stirred, and thousands cried 

Whose tears were a very prayer. 



IN MEMORIAM. 341 

No, no, no, take him home again, 
For his bishop's heart beats there; 
Cast him not with the common dead, 
Let him go home and rest his head, 
Ah! his weary and grief- worn head, 

On the heart of his father — he is mild 

For he loved him as his own child. 

And they brought him home to the home he blest, 

With his life so sweet and fair, 
He blessed it more in his deathly rest — 

His face was a chiseled prayer, 
White as the snow, pure as the foam 

Of a weary wave on the sea, 
He drifted back — and they placed him where 

He would love at last to be. 

His Father in God thought over the years 

Of the beautiful happy past; 
Ah ! me ! we were happy then ; but now, 

The sorrow has come, and saddest tears 
Kiss the dead priest's virgin brow. 

Who will watch o'er the dead young priest, 

People and priests and all ? 
No, no, no, 'tis his spirit's feast; 

When the evening shadows fall, 



342 IN MEMORIAM. 

Let him rest alone— unwatched, alone, 

Just beneath the altar's light, 
The holy hosts on their humble throne 

Will watch him all thro* the night. 

The doors were closed— he was still and fair, 

What sound moved up the aisles ? . 
The dead priests come with soundless prayer, 

Their faces wearing smiles. 
And this was the soundless hymn they sung: 

"We watch o'er you. to-night, 
Your life was beautiful, fair and young, 

Not a cloud upon its light. 
To-morrow— to-morrow you will rest 
With the virgin priests whom Christ has blest.'* 

Kyrie Eleison ! the stricken crowd 

Bowed down their heads in tears 
O'er the sweet young priest in his vestment shroud. 

(Ah ! the happy, happy years I) 
They are dead and gone, and the Heqniem Mass 

Went slowly, mournfully on, 
The Pontiff's singing was all a wail; 

The altars cried, and the people wept,- 
The fairest flower in the church's vale 

(Ah! me! how soon we pass!) 

In the vase of his coffin slept. 



IN MEMCRIAM. 34:3 

Vv r e bore hint out to his resting-place, 

Children, priests and all ; 
There was sorrow on almost ev'ry face — 

And ah ! what tears did fall ! 
Tears from hearts, for a heart asleep, 
Tears from sorrow's deepest deep. 

"Dust to dust," he was lowered down; 

Children ! kneel and pray — 
" Give the white rose priest a flower and crown, 

For the white rose passed away." 

And we wept our tears and left him there, 

And brought his memory home— 
Ah ! he was beautiful, sweet and fair, 

A heavenly hymn — a sweet, still prayer. 
Pare as the snow, white as the foam, 

That seeks a lone, far shore. 
Dead Priest ! bless from amid the blest, 
The hearts that will guard thy place of rest, 

Forever, forever, forever more. 



MOBILE MYSTIC SOCIETIES. 



J|K|HE olden golden stories of the world, 
Sip 3 That stirred the past, 
■"• And now are dim as dreams, 
The lays and legends which the bards unfurled 

In lines that last, 
All— rhymed with glooms and gleams. 

Fragments and fancies writ on many a page 

By deathless pen, 
And names, and deeds that all along each age, 

Thrill hearts of men. 
And pictures erstwhile framed in sun or shade 

Of many climes, 
And life's great poems that can never fade 

Nor lose their chimes; 
And acts and facts that must forever ring 

Like temple bells, 
That sound or geem to sound where angels sing 

Vesper farewells \ 
And scones where smiles are strangely touching tears 

'Tis ever thus* 
Strange Mystics ! in the meeting of the years 

Ye bring to us 



MOBILE MYSTIC SOCIETIES. 345 

All these, and more ; ye make us smile and sigh, 

Strange power ye hold ! 
When New Year kneels low in the star aisled sky 

And asks the Old 
To bless us all with love, and life, and light, 

And when they fold 
Each other in their arms, ye stir the sight, 

We look, and lo ! 
Th3 past is passing, and the present seems 

To wish to go. 
Ye pas3 between them on .your mystic way 

Thro' scene and scene, 
The Old Year marches through your ranks, away 

To what has been, 
The whijp ine pageant moves, it scarcely seems 

A part of earth ; 
the Old Year dies— and heaven crowns with gleams 

The New Year's birth. 
And you! you crown yourselves with heaven's grace 

To enter here — 
A prayer — ascending from an orphan face, 

Or just one tear 
May meet you in the years that are to be 

A blessing rare. 



346 REST. 

Ye pass beneath the arch of charity, 

Who passeth there 
Is blest in heaven, and is blest on earth, 

And God will care, 
Beyond the Old Year's death and New Year's birth, 

For each of you, ye Mystics! Everywhere. 






&d 



REST. 

^lllllf Y fcet are wearied, and nr ,:e tirod 

Si&v 9 My soul oppressed- 
M And I desire, what I have lo: 
Rest— only rest, 

'Tis hard to toil— when toil is almost vain, 

In barren ways ; 
'Tis hard to sow — and never garner grain, 

In harvest days. 

The burden of my days is hard to bear, 

But God knows best; 
And I have prayed — but vain has been my prayer 

For rest — sweet rest. 



REST. 347 

'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap 

The Autumn yield ; 
'lis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep 

O'er fruitless field. 

And so I cry a weak and human cry, 

So heart oppressed ; 
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh, 

For rest — for rest. 

My way has wound across the desert years, 

And cares infest 
My path, and thiough the flowing of hot tears, 

I pine — for rest. 

'Twas always so; when but a child I laid 

On mother's breast 
My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed 

As now — for rest. 

And I am restless still; 'twill soon be q'er; 

For, down the West 
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore 

Where I shall rest. 



\> 






fflfiO, words of mine! and if you live 
%f? Only for one brief, little day; 
•^ If peace, or joy, or calm you give 
To any soul ; or if you bring 
A something higher to some heart, 
I may come back again and sing 
Songs free from all the arts of Art, 



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